


Copper Beaches

by Succi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Humor, Case Fic, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 77,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succi/pseuds/Succi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The case seems easy – a 6 at best  - and then Sherlock wakes up in a hospital suffering from amnesia (Yes, a cheesy situation, but work with me here) and Molly finds herself engaged to him, bound to move in with him and plan a wedding that can’t happen, because the groom is out of his mind and still tries to solve a case that suddenly turns into a 9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Anna’s birthday wish was: “A Sherlolly story (obviously), humour, angst, a mystery, Sherlock engaged and of course a happy ending ;-)” What a well-defined prompt ;-) But to say it with the immortal William Goldman, “As you wish.” I hope I’ve managed to cover at least one category. Happy birthday, my dear! 
> 
> I am happy that once again my faithful beta Pipsis helped me to make it better. I can’t thank you enough!
> 
> Timeline: After S3; John knows that The Woman is still alive. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Since ACD himself said, “You may marry him, murder him, or do anything you like to him,” I intend to do just that with Sherlock – maybe not in that order. Still, I’d like to say that I don’t own Sherlock or the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All rights belong to their respective owners.

** 1\. Prologue **

“Is this the prologue or the posy of a ring?” – _Hamlet_ , William Shakespeare

 

This is a story about memory – not the annoying song from the Musical _Cats_ – but about how different the memory of each and every one of us is and what happens if it is taken away from us. We will have a look into the thoughts and feeling of different characters and will learn that there can be more than one truth. We will see that it makes a difference what we decide to forget and choose to remember. And we will find that sometimes one has to forget in order to remember what is really important.

John Watson stood in front of St. Bartholomew’s hospital and was waiting for Sherlock Holmes. Even after all this time, standing on the pavement where his best friend had supposedly died made him feel uneasy. Not that he would ever admit that – especially not to the high functioning sociopath himself – but John hoped that his friend would turn up soon so he could get away from his place. He shivered slightly and for a second considered turning up his collar to keep the cold away. But he refrained from it. Turning up the collar was for people with cheekbones and expensive coats; not for former army doctors with a family. John sighed deeply and pursed his hands into his coat pockets. He realized how exhausted he still felt. It had been three weeks since they had finished the case of Not-Moriarty, yet still he felt drained. No wonder, it had been a nightmare – for all of them. He couldn’t even imagine how Molly must have felt. She had been so brave, but being kidnapped was traumatizing. He knew from experience. So far she seemed to cope well, but how could he be sure? She had managed to keep a secret from him for two years. Honestly, he had never thought she would be capable of something like that. She had surprised him, and maybe she would do that again and was indeed fine. He decided then and there – while shifting from one foot to the other – that he would invite Molly for coffee with them next week.  Mary and he could have a little chat with her and show her that they were there for her if she wanted to talk. Additionally Molly loved the little Miss Watson, and the feeling was mutual. So he was sure Molly would be delighted at the prospect of spending an afternoon with the Watson family. The idea that he could also invite Sherlock crossed his mind, but he dismissed it instantly. The consulting detective had not been the easiest to deal with since the end of the case. He was on the edge all the time and had been quite dismissive towards the petite pathologist since then. In John’s opinion this was not how a knight in shining armour should behave after a brave rescue, but Sherlock had once told the army doctor that he was no hero. Still, John refused to believe that. He refused to give up on his friend. And maybe, just maybe, their current case would help the consulting detective to stop this ridiculous game of avoidance with a certain pathologist. If only he could behave himself for once! Although John had hope that things could go back to normal, he was also worried. What Sherlock was about to do could either set things right or make them even worse. And if the latter was the case… The army doctor was afraid that Molly Hooper would severe all contact with Sherlock Holmes. And he would not blame her. 

John was just about to pull out his mobile to call his best friend to ask where the bloody hell he was, when said man appeared next to him. His hair was in disarray from the wind and the collar of his Belstaff was turned up – of course. “Where have you been?” John did nothing to hide the anger in his voice. It left the consulting detective unimpressed, “I had to take care of some things.” He patted the side of his coat pocket. “What are you waiting for? We’re late,” he added and started walking towards the entrance of the pathology building. John rolled his eyes and hastened to catch up with the long strides of his taller friend.

Inside the building Sherlock unbuttoned his coat while walking. John caught up with him and tried to get his attention. “Sherlock!” The consulting detective kept on walking towards the staircase that led down to the morgue and lab as if he had not heard. The former army doctor was determined to at least try to tell his friend that he needed to approach the matter with more delicacy than he usually did, so he started again, “Sherlock, you know this is a lot to ask for, don’t you? Maybe we should ask someone else?” John knew perfectly well that there was no one else. Sherlock’s list of female friends was quite short. And he considered asking The Woman was an even worse idea than asking the pathologist. Not only because John did not like her. He was not even sure if The Woman fell under the category of “friends.” She probably did not fit in any existing category. Sherlock tried to brush it off with a gesture of his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Molly helped me with matters that were far more delicate than this.” They reached the end of the staircase and were about to enter the corridor that led to the lab, when John put a hand on the detective’s arm to stop him. Sherlock looked at him surprised. “Sherlock, I know tact is not your forte, but you need to be nice to Molly if you want her to help us.” Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “I don’t see why you are complaining. I did not say anything rude or hurtful to her in the last couple of weeks.” “Because you did not talk to her at all.” Sherlock wanted to correct him, but John held up a hand. “No, acknowledging her presence with a nod and answering her question about coffee with a ‘yes’ don’t count.” Sherlock growled and was about to walk on, but John stopped him once more. “You can’t treat her the way you do. Not after everything she’s been through.” The consulting detective rolled his eyes dramatically. Sometimes John wished he would get a penny every time Sherlock did that. “Calm down, John. Molly is fine. She’s stronger than you think.”

At times John could not believe how thick his brilliant friend could be. “What you are doing is called giving her mixed signals.” Sherlock’s eyes turned dark. “What are you insinuating?” John held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am not insinuating anything. I’m just saying that it’s not good to give her the cold shoulder after such a display of affection.” Now Sherlock’s eyes became small slits, and he hissed through clenched teeth, “She had been kidnapped, I rescued her and she was frightened. She practically threw herself into my arms. What should I’ve done? I thought it would be considered rude to push her away in front of the people from the Yard.” With that he turned away and walked on. John could not help and mutter under his breath as he followed the consulting detective, “We seem to remember that scene quite differently.”

As usual, Sherlock entered the morgue by pushing at the swinging doors dramatically. John followed close behind and hoped against better knowledge that Sherlock would at least try to say the right thing. “I need a fiancée,” the dark haired man proclaimed. John bowed his head. That had definitely not been the right thing. Molly was sitting at a microscope and had not bothered to look up from her work when she had heard the door. She was used to Sherlock’s dramatic display by now. Only after his statement did she sit up straight, look at the consulting detective and raised her eyebrows, “I’m surprised Janine didn’t volunteer.” John hid his chuckle by clearing his throat. Molly may still have been infatuated with the consulting detective, but every now and then her cheeky side showed up and John enjoyed it. And he had the suspicion that Sherlock did so too. Before his brilliant friend could retort something that would make it even worse, John stepped forward and tried to save the situation. “Hi Molly, how are you?” “Hi John, I’m fine, thanks. How’s the family life going?” Molly stood up and walked over to stand in front of them. Sherlock rolled his eyes (a penny for John), muttered, “Small talk, just brilliant…,” went over to the cupboards and started playing with his phone. Molly tried her best to ignore him. John gave her an apologetic look before he answered, “Great, thanks. You know, the little Miss sunshine keeps us awake.” Molly smiled openly, “I can imagine.” “Mary and I would like to invite you to…,” John started, but Sherlock interrupted him from his place on the other side of the room, “For God’s sake! We don’t have time for this!” John shot daggers at him, and Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest in a defensive gesture. The former army doctor’s gaze went back to the pathologist and he explained, “Molly, we need your help. And believe me, we would not ask you if there was any other way, but you’re the only one we can trust with this.” Molly risked a side-glance to the man on the other side of the room who was staring at her. She looked back at John, “What do you need?” John cleared his throat and took a step towards her. He could see that Molly was getting a bit nervous, not knowing what this was all about. “We are currently working on this case: A young woman named Violet Hunter approached us. She works as a governess with the family Rucastle and there seem to be some weird things going on in their house.” “Weird things?” Molly repeated. But before John could specify, Sherlock interjected, “Long story short: We need to go undercover in order to have a closer look at the house and its inhabitants. Although this is quite unnecessary, because Miss Hunter is just misled by that useless thing called a woman’s intuition. Anyway. There’s a party at the Rucastle’s house tonight, so it should be fairly easy to get in. Only engaged and married couples are invited. And because Mr Rucastle is very old fashioned it is out of the question that John and I attend this party together.” John snorted, but Molly kept looking at Sherlock who pushed himself off the counter, put his phone back into his pocket and came over to stand next to them. “John would not let me go alone with Mary, therefore we need you to play the part of my fiancée.” With the end of his speech, Sherlock stopped a few feet away from her, crossed his hands behind his back in this typical manner of his and looked expectantly at her. Molly had to blink a few times before she asked to clarify, “Just to get this right: John, Mary, you and I go on a party tonight and pretend to be engaged so John and you can do a recce on the house of this Mister…” “Rucastle,” John supplied. Sherlock corrected her, “Well, you and I pretend to be engaged. Mary and John are already married, but basically, yes.” Molly looked from Sherlock to John and back. The consulting detective nodded, clapped his hands together and stated, “Brilliant, that’s settled then. We’ll pick you up at 7. Don’t be late.” He fished a dark blue velvet box out of his coat pocket, put it next to Molly on the table and nodded once again, “See you later.” He turned towards the door and just as he passed John, he turned his head around, “And wear a long dress.” He graced her with one of his fake smiles, and then he was gone.

There was silence in the room. The two doctors did not know what to say. John wanted nothing more than to punch his best friend – again – and Molly felt totally paralyzed. Her head was swimming. She stared at the velvet box on the table and pointed a finger at it. “John, is that what I think it is?” John could only do the same and look at the box. “I guess so.” He did not really know what to say. “Molly, I totally understand if you don’t…” “No, it’s okay.” John gave her a look that clearly said that he was not convinced. “No, seriously, its fine. I’ll do it.” She shrugged her shoulders and tore her gaze away from the object on the table. “It is not like I will be alone with Sherlock, is it? I’ll just enjoy a night out with you and Mary. It’s been ages since I’ve dressed up and went to a party. It’ll be fun” John was not sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. He gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry, we won’t leave you alone with the git. You’re right, it will be fun.” They smiled at each other before John nodded reassuringly and turned to go. “See you later, Molly.”

After John’s exit Molly turned back to look at the “gift” Sherlock had left behind. Hesitantly she picked it up. The dark velvet was soft to touch and the box felt heavier than she would have thought. With trembling fingers she opened it. Molly bit her lip when she finally saw what it contained. Her suspicion had been correct. It was an engagement ring, but it looked very different than the last one she had worn. It was a white gold solitaire engagement ring with a single marquise-cut diamond. It was beautiful and perfect and Molly was not sure if her chest suddenly felt so tight because her heart was about to burst or break.


	2. I got my Mind set on you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am grateful for your support! I am glad you liked the opener!   
> Pipsis got her mind set on eliminating my mistakes. Thank you!

** 2\. I got my mind set on you **

****

“I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.” – Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane_

 

This time it was Sherlock Holmes who had to wait for his best friend in the bitter cold. He hated waiting. Patience had never been his forte. But then again, most people were not fond of waiting. Especially if the temperature was low and a cold wind was blowing into one’s face. He refrained from checking his watch for the umpteenth time, because A: He knew exactly what time it was, and B: to do that he would have had to take his hand out of his pocket and roll the sleeve of his coat up and it was definitely too cold for that. He walked up and down in front of Molly’s building and watched his breath become visible in the cold night air every time he exhaled. Why had he told Molly not to be late? Molly was always on time. He should have told Mary. She was always late. Now she used the baby as an excuse, but she had even been late before her daughter had been born. Sherlock was sure she would use the baby again to justify her lack of time management. He considered going upstairs and wait for the Watsons in the warmth of Molly’s flat, but he knew it would be awkward – him and Molly alone in a room, her wearing his engagement ring. Not his engagement ring, but the one he had bought for her. Of course he had not really bought it for her, he had bought it for the case. Or so he told himself. He sighed and tilted his head back. Ever since the Not-Moriarty case (he needed to tell John to find a better name for it) thinking about Molly left him confused and frustrated. He hoped that time would make it better and get his mind back onto the right track. For a second he wondered if a blow to the head might help. Before his thoughts could turn even more bizarre, he was saved by the sound of a cab stopping behind him. He turned around and was greeted by the sight of Mary hurrying out of the car while John took something out of the glove compartment into his coat pocket. Probably his phone or gun. Mary adjusted her coat. Her face was flushed, which told Sherlock that they had been in a rush. John climbed out of the car as well and they both came to stand next to the detective. Mary explained a bit breathless, “Sorry, but at first the babysitter was late, and then the zipper of this bloody dress got stuck.” She sighed deeply and then touched her hair with her left hand, as if to check if everything was still in place. Sherlock more or less ignored her excuse. “I expected you to be late.” Instead of lessoning him, John nudged his grumpy friend playfully in the ribs and winked, “Well, curious about what Molly will wear?” Sherlock looked and sounded bored, “She only has one long gown. It’s black with sequined straps. And it would look better without the sequins.” Mary’s and John’s eyebrows raised in unison. “You know how many dresses she has?” John asked in disbelieve. Sherlock shrugged, “Like I have said: one long and six knee-long ones, excluding the one she bought for your wedding.“ John could only shake his head, “And I thought she was joking when she told me about the bolt hole…“ Mary patted her husband on the shoulder and said to Sherlock, “Who knows, maybe she’ll surprise you.” Sherlock scoffed, “Hardly.” With that he started to enter Molly’s building. As usual, the front door was not locked. He made a mental note to have a talk with Molly’s landlord about this lack of security. The Watsons followed close on his heels. Molly’s flat was on the 3rd floor and there was no elevator. John wondered how a delicate woman like Molly was able to carry bottles of water or a package of washing powder upstairs. Since the doctor noticed his friend’s bad mood, he tried to distract him by making conversation (although this ensured that he would definitely be breathless once they would arrive on the 3rd floor), “Greg told me you solved the case about the jealous woman.” Sherlock did neither slow down nor turn around, but answered, “I don’t know why a guy called Greg would know about it, but yes. It was quite obvious; it was the jealous woman, after all. Why did no one pay attention to her socks?” John gave his wife a look while she passed him, trying to catch up with Sherlock. She only shrugged, but it looked a bit weird, because she was busy holding her gown up while climbing the stairs. To the Watson’s surprise Sherlock had to say more about the case he had solved this afternoon, “I really don’t see why she didn’t kill him sooner though. He used and manipulated her, yet still she did everything for him. Why?” John and Mary stopped and shared a look. Sometimes it was frustrating to be best friends with a man who did not understand human nature at all. “Maybe because of the same reason why Molly helped you fake your death?” John suggested while he and his wife started walking again. Now Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks so that Mary almost bumped into him when she added, “Except Molly would not turn all _Fatal Attraction_ on you.” Sherlock ignored her statement, clearly not getting the reference and resumed climbing the stairs.

 

Molly Hooper’s day had gone by in a blur. It had begun like every other: getting up (too early for her liking), getting ready for work, feeding Toby and herself, missing the Tube, rushing into the morgue realizing that her “beloved” colleague had left the paperwork for her (how thoughtful...), doing an autopsy (natural cause, routine), running a blood test (clean), being interrupted by a tall, dark haired, smug detective and his best friend and then the order of her Friday morning had been disturbed. Being asked to play Sherlock’s fiancée was not part of her daily routine. And to say that his proposal had been slightly different than from what she had always imagined would have been an understatement. Not that she had imagined Sherlock proposing... In her confusion she had called Mary. Mary, being the good friend she was, had offered her help and support and decided that the first step (after not panicking) was to buy a new dress. Therefore the two women went to Oxford Street in the late afternoon and bought new dresses: one for Misses Watson and one for fake-soon-to-be Misses Holmes. To Molly’s surprise the shopping tour had helped her to calm down a bit. Now that she was standing on front the mirror in her bedroom and looking at her reflection, she decided that she was content with what she saw. The dress made her feel pretty and that gave her confidence. And one needed confidence when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. She knew that the dress suited her well. Not even the git consulting detective could argue with that. At first Molly had been unsure when she had tried the dress on. It was so... elegant. But Mary had convinced her that it was the right choice and now Molly had to admit that her friend had been right. She nodded towards her refection and went out of the bedroom. She looked at the clock and wondered where the others were. She walked over to the couch and figured that the reason for them being late was probably Mary. She was never on time. A small smile played on her lips when she thought about how irritated Sherlock would be by it – again. He hated if people were late. Molly was ready to go: She wore her new dress, she had done her hair (French twist) and make-up, wore her earrings and a bracelet (because of the neckline of the dress she did not wear a necklace). There was only one thing left: The ring. It was still sitting peacefully on its velvet bed in the blue box that was staring at her mockingly from the coffee table. She had not dared to put it on, yet even take it out of the box again. She knew it was ridiculous. It was just a ring – a piece of jewellery. It was nothing more than a prop in a play. It meant nothing. Yet still she had trouble putting the ring onto her finger. She was afraid, once she would feel its weight on her hand, she could forget that it was all just for a case. What if she did something stupid? She had the sickening feeling that this ring was doomed not to help her get over Sherlock Holmes, but draw her even closer. But she didn’t really have a choice. She had agreed to do it, so there was no turning back now. They would be here soon and she rather get it over with now, than when they were looking at her. Taking a deep breath, as if she was about to go under water, she grabbed the box from the coffee table, opened it, took the ring out of its cushion, put the box back down onto the table and slid it over her fourth finger. She did it hastily in a matter of seconds and only when she felt the weight of the ring upon her finger, did she pause and look at the small sparkling diamond that graced her finger. She was not even surprised that the ring fit perfectly. Sherlock could tell by looking at one’s shoes what one had been thinking when they had left the flat in the morning. Guessing one’s ring size was probably as boring as breathing for him. What surprised her was the fact that he knew her taste so well. She sighed deeply, bowed her head and asked herself what she had gotten herself into this time. Things with Sherlock were always, for the lack of a better word, interesting. But this was probably a whole new level. But before she could dwell anymore on her decision, the doorbell rang. There was no turning back now. It was the point of no return, the edge of the precipice and all the other clichés.


	3. Partners in Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks again for all your support and encouraging words. I will try my best not to disappoint you. 
> 
> This chapter is mainly exposition. I’m sorry, but it’s necessary if there’s a case. I tried to make it as little boring as possible. What needs must when the devil drives (or in our case Mary). 
> 
> Thanks to my partner in crime Pipsis!

** 3\. Partners in Crime **

“If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.” ― [Mark Twain](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1244.Mark_Twain)

 

When Molly Hooper opened the door and tried to act nonchalant (she could not fool them, it was plain to see that she was nervous), Sherlock Holmes was taken aback. That phrase was seldom used in connection with the consulting detective, but it was very appropriate now. The pathologist did not look at all like he had expected she would. Not that he had spared a thought about it… She wore a floor-length, sleeveless, midnight blue sheath dress with a bateau neckline. He had never seen her wear something so elegant before, and he had to admit that she looked quite glamorous. Not like the mousy pathologist at all. Of course he could muster to keep the wonder out of his features. Still, he knew that at least Mary had noticed. Sometimes it was a nuisance that his best friend’s wife was a trained killer and therefore knew how to read people’s behaviour. When he did not move, Mary stepped past him into the flat with a knowing smile on her lips. “Well, if no one else is going to say something, I will: Surprise, Sherlock!”   
Molly suddenly looked confused and unsure of herself and made a step back. “What?”   
Sherlock finally entered the flat, John following close behind, and demanded to know in a harsh tone, “What kind of dress is this?“ He gestured dismissively towards Molly’s frame.   
“A long one,” was her meek reply.   
“I can see that, but where is the black one with the atrocious sequins?“   
“In the closet. This is a new one. Mary and I bought it this afternoon. “ The pathologist looked pleadingly in her friend’s direction.   
“Obviously.” Sherlock shot his best friend’s wife a look, who smiled at him innocently.   
Molly gulped. “Do you want me to change? I can…” She was about to turn around, when Sherlock stopped her, “No. This is fine.“   
Molly looked down onto the floor, her cheeks red from nervousness. Mary stepped onto Sherlock’s foot. He did his best to suppress a curse and then tried to sound reassuring when he told Molly, “I mean, you look… It suits you.”   
She lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”   
They looked at each other for a moment and Mary winked at her husband. Just as John thought Sherlock was going to say more, Molly’s voice broke the silence. “I just need my coat, and then we can leave.” She walked over to the hanger. While doing so, her back was turned towards them, and for the second time in the last few minutes Sherlock was surprised. Only this time it was plain to see on his face, so that John had to hide a chuckle. Molly’s dress, that looked so innocent from the front, was not so innocent when seen from behind, because it had an open back. Mary, who was never one to leave out a chance to tease her husband’s best friend, suggested playfully, “Sherlock, won’t you help your fiancée into her coat?”   
Molly, who had been totally oblivious to what her attire was doing to the consulting detective turned around and looked confused at Mary. Sherlock’s face was once more the likeness of detachment. He straightened his shoulders before answering, “I think Molly is perfectly capable of managing herself.” With that he turned around and left the flat.

* * *

 

“We need to agree on some things we are about to do tonight.” It was the first sentence Sherlock had uttered since he had left Molly’s flat. They were sitting in the Watson’s car. They had decided to take their car and not a cab, since their destination was in Hampshire, about 5 miles on the far side of Winchester, and that way they would be able to go back anytime they wanted. Mary was driving, John sat in the passenger’s seat and Molly and Sherlock on the backseat.   
John turned around to comment on his friend’s words, “You mean: You are going to tell us what we have to do.”   
“Precisely.”  
John rolled his eyes and faced the road again. Sherlock adjusted in his seat so that he had a better look at the other people. “You call yourselves Mary and John Morstan,” he decided, directed at the couple in the front.   
“You keep your name,” he told Molly, “and I am William Holmes from now on.”   
Molly turned to look at him sceptically. “Does that even make sense? Only changing the first name… And not only that… I mean… it is your first name, after all.”   
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “How do you know?”   
Molly shrugged carelessly. “I saw your real passport when you were in my flat after the fall. Not that I sneaked around or something, it was coincidence, I...”   
The consulting detective interrupted her rambling, “People are far more stupid than you give them credit for. They usually don’t recognize me without the stupid hat. So I can as well keep my surname. We should stick as close to the truth as possible. That way it’s easier to remember for you.”   
John snorted, “Yeah, because you don’t ever forget or confuse anything.”   
“No, I don’t,” Sherlock confirmed tight lipped.   
There was a pause in which Molly and Mary could not repress a small smile. It was always amusing seeing John and Sherlock behave like an old married couple. Mary thought about telling her husband that he should have considered marrying his former flatmate and not her, but Sherlock resumed his speech, “So, here’s the back-story…,” he said, talking to Molly.   
“What?”   
One could tell that Sherlock had trouble keeping the irritation out of his voice. “The back-story. Since we’re undercover, we need to invent the history of our relationship.”   
Molly looked uncertain. “Can’t we just use our real history?”   
“I doubt that you providing me with body parts and me insulting you is the usual way how a normal couple interacts.”   
Although his words should have stung, Molly scoffed, “We are hardly normal.”   
“No, but William and Molly are. Normal to the point of being boring.”   
Now Molly crossed her arms and demanded to know,  “Why do you get to have another first name, but I have to keep mine?”   
“Because nobody will be interested in you.”   
John turned his head around and glared daggers at his friend, while Mary chided, “Sherlock!” He ignored it, of course, and turned back to look out of the window, while Molly muttered under her breath, “So much for insulting me.”

* * *

 

In the next 30 Minutes the women chatted a bit, but the most part of the drive was spent in comfortable silence. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten about the back-story, or had decided that it was not so important after all. Although it was dark, one could make out small houses on the side of the street, surrounded by lawn and trees.   
“What a charming rural place,” Molly remarked when they passed a few cottages. “One can’t imagine that crime should happen here.”   
Sherlock chided her, “The lowest and vilest abbeys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”   
“It makes me sad that you always see the world as such a horrible place.” Molly was determined not to let Sherlock spoil her good mood.   
“Why? I’m a realist. That way I don’t get disappointed.”   
“No, that way you don’t see anything good.”   
There was a pause, in which none of the passengers knew what to say. A dozen things that he could retort ran through Sherlock’s mind, but they were all rude or insulting, and he didn’t want to ruin things with his fake-fiancée before the evening had even begun. Luckily before he could change his mind, Molly spoke up again, “So, we’re here so you can have a look around the house, because something weird is going on. Could you be a bit more specific?”   
John was faster than Sherlock to answer, “A certain Miss Violet Hunter contacted us. She is the new governess at the Rucastle’s. She has excellent references and has worked in well respected houses. Everything went exceptionally well at the job interview. Mr Rucastle even offered to pay her far more than she had expected. But when she moved into the house, it turned out that Mr Rucastle was of choleric nature, his wife was more or less silent, and the six year old son was torturing animals.”   
“Oh, that must have been horrible for her!” Molly exclaimed in sympathy.   
John went on, “I guess so, but that was not what made her seek our help.”   
“What was?”   
“When she took on the job, she learned that a former colleague of her, Mister Toller, worked there as well. He was the butler, but Miss Hunter had barely recognized him. His hair was cut short and dyed brown, although he had always been very fond of his blond curls, as Miss Hunter assured us. He also acted very strangely towards her, as if he did not know her. The Rucastles live in a mansion with many rooms. Miss Hunter told us that Mister Rucastle told her not to enter the east wing. Under no circumstances. At first she did not really pay attention to it, but then she started to hear screams coming from the east wing at night. And that was when she contacted us.”   
“Wow,” was all that Molly could muster. “That sounds like a mystery novel.”   
For the first time since John’s explanation Sherlock spoke up once more, “And that’s all there is: a young woman imagining things, because she has read too many mystery novels. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality.”   
“And if you are so sure that it’s nothing, why are we going to investigate?” Mary asked from behind the steering wheel.   
Sherlock crossed his arms and settled back into his seat, like a petulant child. “That’s why I prefer cabs: I can pay the drivers to hold their tongue.” 


	4. Fagus Sylvatica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some people have asked me why I’ve chosen The Adventure of The Copper Beeches. The reason is not a sentimental (it’s not my favourite Sherlock Holmes – story), but a practical one: I thought it would work best with the amnesia plot I had in mind. 
> 
> This chapter is long and also contains a lot of... yes you’ve guessed right: exposition. Sorry again.
> 
> I raise my glass to my beta Pipsis. Cheers!

** 4\. Fagus sylvatica **

Remember, my friend that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.” – Bram Stoker, _Dracula_

The house of the Rucastles was a grand mansion, surrounded by copper beeches. Molly had never been to such a place before and the wonder was clearly visible on her face. Sherlock almost found it endearing, but when walking her up the steps to the entrance, he told her, “Close your mouth. It doesn’t help to make you more attractive.” Molly closed her mouth instantly and bit her lip.

The man who opened the door was dressed in a tailcoat and looked like a butler. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. May I ask for your names?” His tone was friendly, but detached.  
Sherlock stepped forward and answered, “Holmes, party of four.”  
The butler looked at his clipboard, seemed to be pleased to find the right name, crossed it out, looked back up at them and gestured to his right. “Very well, thank you. May you leave your coat with Mister Barrymore, please.”  
Another man in tailcoat – clearly Mister Barrymore – made a step towards them. The four got rid of their coats, and when they were ready Mister Barrymore gestured straight ahead and told them to go into the Green Room. Sherlock acted as if he knew his way around, thanked the man and turned around towards Molly. He spared Mary a quick glance and then took Molly’s arm so that she had no choice, but to link arms with him. Without acknowledging her surprise he started to lead them into the direction Mister Barrymore had pointed. After a few steps, Sherlock mentioned casually, “Mary, I see you have chosen a violet dress. You know that in film violet stands for sexually frustrated women.”  
Molly stiffened beside him and John was just about to rebuke his friend, but Mary beat her husband to it. Her tone was as casual as Sherlock’s had been, “No I did not know that. So that means your purple shirt practically screams, ‘I need to get laid!’”  
Both John and Molly chuckled and the former once again thanked heavens that he had found a wife who knew how to deal with the git that was his best friend. Sherlock sounded grim when he replied, “It’s purple, not violet.”  
Mary shrugged. “If you say so. Glad we’re not in a film then, aren’t you?”  
Sherlock did not comment any further on it, and if he had, Molly would have probably not heard him. While entering the Green Room, the pathologist had a hard time doing as Sherlock had told her and keep her mouth closed. She realized then and there that multitasking was not her strongest suit, for it was too much for her to keep from staring and acting nonchalant about Sherlock’s close proximity at the same time.

The Green Room was more a hall than a room in Molly’s opinion. The wallpaper and furniture gave the room its name. On the right side of the room was a seating area and on the left a small stage, where a string quartet played some classic piece Molly didn’t know. The room was full of people dressed in elegant attire. Sherlock seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go, and so the other three just followed him. Not that Molly had any other choice – her arm being looped through his. He walked them over to a couch in the right corner of the room that seemed to be unoccupied. Molly was not the only one who was impressed by the venue. From the corner of her eyes she could see Mary looking around the room as well. So the pathologist could not help, but turn her head and say to her friend, “I feel like I’m at _Downton Abbey_.“  
Mary giggle. “Or in _Upstairs and Downstairs_.”’  
Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this place looks exactly like all other social gatherings of this kind that are designed to bore you to death.”  
John patted his shoulder from behind, “Ever the party animal our friend, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock just ignored him, stopped in front of the couch and gestured Molly to sit down. I took Molly a second to register what Sherlock was doing. She was not used to him offering her a seat. She smiled shyly and took a seat. Mary did the same (without smiling at Sherlock, of course) and sat beside her. “John and I will get some drinks,” Sherlock decided.  
“Obviously we do,” muttered John under her breath.  
The women just smiled and as the men were about to turn around to head into the direction of the bar, Molly’s voice stopped them. “What about our back-story?” she whispered quite loudly into Sherlock’s direction.  
“Just try to talk to strangers as little as possible, stay close to me, refrain from talking about private matters, try to be as unspecific as possible, don’t... You know what? Leave the talking to me.”  
“But I...” But that was as far as Molly came, because Sherlock had already left to organize some drinks. She sighed deeply – the nervousness clearly visible on her face.   
Mary laid a hand on her shoulder. “Just forget about it. We’ll enjoy the party and let the men do their work.”  
That made Molly smile. “You’re right.”

“Do you have a plan?” John whispered while they were waiting for their orders at the bar. Sherlock looked outwardly bored, but John knew that he was deducing all the people in the room, trying to get as much useful information as possible. “I always have a plan,” was his scathing reply.  
“Except for those times when you don’t have one.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “When will you get over it? The plan was to outrun the man.”  
“Outrun the man with the motorbike and the gun. It was a really clever plan...” During the Not-Moriarty case there had been some instances when the men had had to improvise a bit. It had been one of those moments, John hoped would remain a once in a lifetime experience.  
“No, Sherlock, seriously. What’s the plan?”  
As usual the detective was not happy to share with the class. “We will have a little chat with Miss Hunter, have a closer look at the host and the enigmatic Mister Toller and maybe do a tour through the house.”  
“I doubt we’re talking about a guided tour.” The waiter gave them their drinks.  
Sherlock winked and John saw a dangerous twinkle in his eyes, “No, we’re talking about a private tour.”  
With four gasses in their hands they made their way back towards the women.  
“Sherlock, why were we on the list?”  
“Miss Hunter made sure we’re invited.” John only nodded and looked at Sherlock’s face. They were only a few feet away from the couch where the women sat and chatted, and the doctor realized that his friend’s gaze was glued to Molly’s left hand. She was playing absentmindedly with the engagement ring. It had become a nervous habit rather quickly. John remembered Mary doing the same. A dreadful though crossed John’s mind and he had to make sure before the women could hear them, so he asked, “Sherlock, please tell me this is not Janine’s ring.“  
Sherlock stopped short in his stride and looked scandalized. “Not even I am that insensitive.”  
“Just checking,” John mumbled defensively.

They made the few last strides towards the women and handed them their drinks. Since John knew his wife well enough, he had not needed to ask her what she wanted and since Sherlock Holmes was Sherlock Holmes – although he was William Holmes at the moment – Molly was not surprised that he had brought her a glass of champagne, just what she had wanted. John sat next to Mary and Sherlock next to Molly. It was just enough space for four people on the sofa. After the first sip, Molly felt the cold liquid run down her throat and calm her down a bit. Sure, she tried to enjoy a night out with Mary, but it was a bit much for her. Beside her, Sherlock was scanning the crowd and Molly was keen to make some small talk to help her keep her mind off the fact that almost the entire length of the left side of her body was touching Sherlock’s right side. She leant a bit forward to have a better look at John. “So I heard you started to write down the latest case?”  
John turned towards her as well. “Yes, but something or better someone keeps me from finishing it.” He shot a glance to the man next to him.  
Molly chuckled. She knew all too well how frustrating it could be if Sherlock was constantly getting between oneself and the paperwork. “I am looking forward reading it.”  
“Me too,” Mary chimed in.  
“You are not allowed to read it beforehand?” Molly was surprised.  
“No. Mister Morstan is very strict about that. Same rules apply to everyone. No exceptions. Not even for his wife.” She smiled and winked.  
“I like your stories, John. Really. They are better than most crime novels.” Molly shrugged before she continued thoughtfully, “Probably because they are true.”  
Suddenly the main protagonist of John’s tales decided to join the conversation, “Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”  
The grip on John’s wine glass became a bit tighter, and he did nothing to hide the anger in his voice, “You should thank me for the way I portray you on my blog. Because of it you have work and people admire you. If I wrote stuff like what you’ve just said now, no one would read it. I mean, no normal person talks like that.”  
“I am not normal,” Sherlock stated, never taking his eyes off the other people in the room.  
“Hardly.”  
“I like John’s writing style,” Molly tried to support her friend, knowing exactly how it felt to be criticized by the consulting detective.  
Of course it did not help much, for Sherlock only sighed and muttered, “What do the unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction?”  
Mary tried to set an end to the conversation, “I think we should change the subject.”  
“You’re right,” Sherlock said, “we are not here to lecture your husband upon his literal shortcomings. We’re not here for fun after all.”  
John was just about to speak his mind, when a tall, blonde woman in a green dress waved at them and made her way towards the sofa where they sat. Their argument forgotten, Molly asked, “Who is this?”  
“Violet Hunter, the governess that asked for our help,” John answered.  
“She’s very pretty,” Molly remarked and there was a hint of disapproval in her voice.  
“A woman men would die for,” the man next to her said.  
John looked surprised. “Unusual language for you, Sherlock.”  
The detective waved it off with a gesture of his hand. “A metaphor, nothing more.“

Violet Hunter had reached them, and all rose to meet her. “Mister Holmes, Mister Watson, I am so glad you are here!” she exclaimed and shook the hands of the two gentlemen. She looked distressed, yet she stared Sherlock up and down in an approving manner that Molly did not approve of.   
“These are Doctor Molly Hooper and Misses Mary Watson.” Sherlock introduced them to Miss Hunter as if he was oblivious of her admiration.   
Molly figured he probably was and decided to stump down her jealously. It was inappropriate and childish.   
After they all had shaken hands Sherlock added, “And since we’re undercover these are Mister and Misses Morstan and my name is William and Miss Hooper is my fiancée.”   
Miss Hunter nodded dutifully and mumbled, “I see,” but seemed too distressed to really pay attention. She kept looking nervously over her shoulder.   
“Why won’t you sit down, Miss Hunter, and tell us what is bothering you?” John suggested and gestured for her to take a seat.   
She nodded and did so. John and his wife followed suit and so did Sherlock. Molly was left standing, because the sofa was not big enough for five people. But before she could even contemplate if it was socially accepted to sit on the arm rest, she felt two hands encircle her waist and she was pulled onto Sherlock’s lap. For a second Molly forgot how to breathe and went stiff.   
Sherlock chose to ignore it and asked Miss Hunter in his typical interrogation-voice, “What happened to your hair, Miss Hunter?”   
She blinked a few times, and then finally her eyes became focused on the man next to her.   
“I had to cut it. Mister Rucastle told me to. He expects obedience on the most extraordinary matters.“ Her tone left no doubt that she was afraid of her employer.   
“It makes you look younger,” Sherlock said matter-of-fact. It was not a compliment, merely an observation. Still Miss Hunter blushed. “And what about this Mister Toller? Where is he?“ Miss Hunter pointed a finger to her left where a few servants were gathered. “That’s him, over there. The tall one with the brown hair.“   
Sherlock looked at where she was pointing to. “Could you wave him over, please. I’d like to talk to him for a moment.”   
“Sure.“ Miss Hunter did as she was told and Mister Toller approached them, although he seemed reluctant about it.   
“Can I help you with anything?” he asked once he was standing in front of them.   
Sherlock hastened to clear up the misunderstanding, “No, we don’t require your service as an employee of this house. We are friends of Miss Hunter, and she told us how delighted she was to have a familiar face around in the new environment, and we were curious who this nice gentleman was.” The detective sounded nothing like his usual condescending self, and stretched out his hand to shake Mister Toller’s. His face brightened a bit and he shook it hesitantly. “Pleased to meet you Mister…“   
“Holmes. William Holmes. These are my friends John and Mary Morstan and his is my fiancée Molly Hooper.“ Said fiancée almost chocked on her drink when she felt Sherlock’s right hand sneak around her waist to pull her a bit closer. Of course she tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible, but was having a hard time.   
Mister Toller shook hands with everyone and Sherlock resumed his interrogation, but with a friendly voice that sounded nothing like he normally did when questioning someone, “So, how long have you been here, Mister Toller? Any inside tips for our Miss Hunter?”   
Mister Toller did not like it at all that the attention was directed at him. The corner of his mouth twitched nervously. “Nah, I have only been here for a month or two. Not much longer than Miss Hunter.”   
Sherlock was about to ask another question, but Mister Toller tried to distract from himself, “Engaged?” he nodded towards Molly and Sherlock, “So when’s the big day then?” He was directing his question at Molly, but she was too stunned to react, so Sherlock answered for her, “On the 16th of August.” He brought a hand up to stroke her arm. Molly held back a shiver that ran through her. “Yes,” she said in a low voice, “we... can’t wait.” She smiled at Mister Toller and could see Sherlock doing the same.   
Mister Toller returned the smile, but it was clearly forced. “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to work. Mister Rucastle doesn’t like us chatting with guests.” He gave Miss Hunter a pointed look, nodded at the others and then went away again.   
Molly expected Sherlock to let go of her the instant Mister Toller was out of sight, but he did no such thing. His left hand remained around her waist while his right was draped casually on the arm rest. She tried her best to keep her hands wrapped around the glass on her lap. She did not know what else to do with them. “He’s quite a nervous little fellow,” Mary commented after Mister Toller’s departure.   
“His behaviour gets weirder and weirder,” Miss Hunter said, her gaze once more directed at the crowd, as if she was looking for someone and afraid to find them. “I witnessed the oddest thing last week: In the afternoon I went into the sitting room to get the book I had forgotten there in the morning and I assumed it would be empty, Mr Rucastle being at work and Mrs Rucastle normally remains in her rooms for most of the time, so you can imagine how surprised I was, when I found the sitting room being occupied not only with them, but also with Mister Toller. And he obviously was not there in his role as a butler. He did not even wear his uniform, but some expensive looking suit. He was sitting on a chair close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. Mrs Rucastle was sitting across on the sofa, doing some needlework and her husband was standing between them. It seemed like he had been walking up and down and talking to Mr Toller before I had entered the room. They all looked shocked when I came in, as if I had caught them doing something forbidden. Granted, it’s not customary to have a chat with the butler, but... No need to look so startled, don’t you think?”   
The consulting detective looked at the young governess with a calculating eye. His friends could see that he was interested in the case. “I assume they tried to explain the peculiar situation you have walked into?” Sherlock asked her.   
Miss Hunter nodded and replied, “Yes, Mister Holmes. Mr Rucastle said that he was just telling Mister Toller a funny story, and if I wanted, he would tell me some of his stories too. As you can imagine, I was a bit taken aback and felt that they wanted me to leave the room as soon as possible. So I mumbled that this would be nice and then left the room.” The young woman took a deep breath, before she continued. “Two days later, Misses Rucastle told me to go into the sitting room. Her husband was waiting for me there and asked me to sit in the exact same spot where Mister Toller had set when I had walked in on them. And then he began to tell me some stories. Really funny stories.” Her face light up a bit and she added wistfully, “I laughed so much that my belly hurt.”   
“And then?” Sherlock prompted, getting a bit impatient with his client. He did his best to make an agreeable face, a muscular contraction that cost him a lot of effort.

The governess shook herself out of her memory and responded, “And after an hour or so he told me that he was finished and I should go back to his son.”   
John leaned back into the sofa. “That is really weird.“   
Miss Hunter looked pleadingly at Sherlock and grabbed his shoulder. Molly could feel him flinch under the touch.  “Mister Holmes, what do you think this all means? Last night, I heard it again, the noises coming from the east wing. There is something going on, I know it. I…“ But she stopped talking and stood up straight again.   
The other four turned their heads to find out what had caused her reaction and saw the master and mistress of the house approaching them.

When Sherlock saw Mister Rucastle for the first time, he knew instantly that he did not like him. Granted, there were only a few people he actually liked, but Mister Rucastle would net even come close to the ones he tolerated. The party on the couch got up to greet the hosts who were both tall. Misses Rucastle was thin and pale, whereas her husband was of sturdy build and the colour of his cheeks told Sherlock that he was suffering from high blood pressure and was likely to die from a heart attack.   
Miss Hunter had become very quiet and when Mister and Misses Rucastle approached them he introduced them dutifully. “Ma’m, Sir, these are my friends: Mister and Misses Morstan and Mister Holmes and his fiancée Miss Hooper.”   
They all shook hands and when it was Mister Rucastle’s turn to shake hands with Molly, he paused for a second. He looked her up and down and Sherlock decided then and there that he really did not like the man. Not one bit. He told himself that it was irritation that he felt and not possessiveness.   
Molly felt dirty under Mister Rucastle’s gaze. His eyes were roaming over her, as if he was trying to undress her. She had the urge to take a step back and make herself as invisible as possible, but then she felt Sherlock’s hand around her waist, pulling her close. She did not know if he was doing it on purpose as part of the act or unintentionally. But she did not care. Whatever reason he had, she was glad, because it made her feel safe.   
“I am happy to see Miss Hunter with some friends. I am afraid she must feel quite lonely at times, so far from London,” Mister Rucastle started a conversation.   
“But she has friends here. She was so glad to find out that Mister Toller worked here as well. And I have heard you are really good to her,” Sherlock said stiffly, unaccustomed to being polite to someone he didn’t like.   
The host looked sharply at Miss Hunter. “Oh, I didn’t know you have known each other before you came here.”   
The governess cast her eyes down onto the floor, but was saved from answering by Misses Rucastle. “But that’s lovely, Jephro, don’t you think?” She nudged her husband’s arm.   
“Sure, “ he replied absentmindedly.   
His significant other turned her attention towards Sherlock and Molly and the petite pathologist had a dreadful feeling. “Do you already have a date for the wedding?” Molly tried to think of the date Sherlock had said before, but she could not remember. Luckily her fake-fiancé did not suffer from amnesia and responded, “16th of August.”   
Misses Rucastle smiled and Molly could not help to notice a certain sadness behind it. “How lovely. Young love is such a wonderful thing. And you make such a beautiful couple, if I may say so.”   
The pathologist tried to look as happy as she thought was expected from her. Sherlock’s right hand left her waist and glided down to take her left one in his when he thanked the older woman politely.   
“You’re welcome. Sorry, but what were your names again?” Misses Rucastle asked.   
Her husband replied in an annoyed tone, “Mister Holmes and Miss Hooper.”   
His wife’s eyes went heavenwards, as if trying to remember something. And after a few seconds she obviously did, “Ah, I think I remember reading your engagement announcement.”   
Molly held back a chuckle because of the ridiculousness of the statement. It was interesting what the woman believed to remember something that had never existed in the first place.   
All these pleasantries seemed to be too much for the master of the house, because he excused himself. “I hope you’ll enjoy the rest of the evening and we’ll see you again at some point.” He let his eyes roam over Molly once again, who unconsciously gripped Sherlock’s hand a bit tighter and then the host and hostess left to mingle with the other guests. 

Molly looked after the man. “He’s...,“ she was desperately trying to come up with a term to describe Jephro Rucastle without being rude, but failing miserably.   
As opposed to the petite brunette, Mary didn’t care so much about niceties and supplied, “Sleazy? That’s how Red Riding Hood must have felt under the wolf’s gaze.”   
Miss Hunter defended her employer, “I know he is a bit... of a womanizer and quite choleric. But he’s not always like that. I told you before, he tells the most amusing stories.”   
“It doesn’t take a sophisticated or gifted person to tell stories. Don’t you agree, John?” Sherlock looked at his blogger with a wicked grin who did not even grace his teasing with an answer.   
“I think I should go back to work,” Miss Hunter decided. She faced Sherlock once again. “Please tell me, you will help me, Mister Holmes.“ Her pleading voice made Molly feel cold. She hoped Sherlock would not act like the git he so often was, but be nice to the poor young woman. The consulting detective studied the woman with short hair for a long time. Instead of giving her an answer, he asked a question himself, “Where is this sitting room you had to sit in?”   
The young woman’s features brightened. “That way, through the corridor and then the second door to the left.”   
“Don’t worry, Miss Hunter, I’ll have it solved by tomorrow afternoon.”   
“Thank you so much Mister Holmes!” She nodded at the three others and then disappeared into the crowd.

Molly released a breath she did not know she had been holding and felt Sherlock let go of her hand at the same time. She had not realized that he had still been holding it. Molly was brought back from her musing when she heard Mary clap. “Please and thank you and you’re welcome and... wow, Sherlock, I did not know that you could behave so well,” Mary teased him.   
“I am absolutely capable of being tactful, I just don’t show it usually,” the dark haired man replied grumpily and then went into detective mode, “I will sneak into the sitting room and have a look around. John, Mary you will follow me in precisely five minutes.” He shot Mary a look, “And remember, you have no baby here which you can use as an excuse for being late.”   
“What about me?” Molly asked in a meek voice. She was afraid Sherlock would forget about her once the game had begun. It had happened before.   
“You will seek Misses Rucastle and try to talk to her alone – without her husband. She knows something, but is afraid of her husband.”   
Molly bleached a bit. “Why me?”   
“She obviously liked you. You reminded her of herself when she was young and still hopeful.”   
Molly was not sure if this was a compliment or an insult. With Sherlock is was mostly both. “But what if I say something wrong? I mean, we have not agreed on any back-story.”   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just do as I told you. Let her do the talking. You’re good with people. I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.”   
Molly blinked and then nodded. Now that had been a compliment, hadn’t it? But Sherlock had not even waited for a reply, but was already on his way out of the room.

Molly swallowed the last bit of her champagne and plopped herself down onto the couch again. “What the heck is going on? Sherlock behaving that way is… that’s…“   
Mary sat down as well and chimed in, “It gives me the creeps.“ She shuddered dramatically.   
John remained standing and drained his glass as well. “That’s exactly how he behaved around Janine. This whole hand-holding and nice-talking. It’s disturbing, to say the least.”   
Sherlock’s fake-fiancée leaned back against the backrest of the sofa and said in a low voice, “It’s so shockingly convincing.”   
John put his glass on the nearby table. “The stage lost a fine actor.”   
The both women only nodded and for a few minutes all three of them were dwelling on thoughts.   John’s voice brought the women back to reality. “We’ll better get going before our storybook-fiancé gets impatient,” he said and winked at Molly.   
The women rose to stand. “You’re right,” Molly agreed, “and I will try to repeat Sherlock’s Oscar-worthy performance and get Misses Rucastle to trust me so that she’ll tell me all her family’s dark secrets.”   
Mary put her glass away as well. “Well then, what’s the thing Sherlock always says?”   
“Obviously? “ Molly suggested.   
Mary waved a hand. “No, the other thing, that sounds like a sports metaphor.”   
John smiled wickedly at the two women, “The game is on.”


	5. Danger, Lies, a Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for reading. You guys are awesome!  
> No exposition this time, just a lot of inner monologue ;-) 
> 
> Thanks to by beta Pipsis, you are fantastic!

5\. **Danger, lies, a head**

“Caught up in the middle of a headache and a heartbreak  just when I thought I was clear of the mistakes, no!” –Imagine Dragons, _Working man_  


Finding the sitting room and getting inside unseen was not hard. Most of the servants were busy because of the party, and all guests were in the Green Room so that the corridor that led to the sitting room was empty. The door was not even locked. Not that this would have stopped the consulting detective. It would have only delayed his entrance to the room for a few moments. Once inside his eyes scanned the room. It looked just like he had expected: three windows, a mantel piece, expensive furniture, painted portraits on the walls, ugly curtains, a brown Chesterfield couch, three armchairs around a marble coffee table, a wooden chest on the left side of the room and an expensive yet atrocious rug on the floor. Sherlock would have definitely decorated the room– maybe turn it into a room where he could play his violin and enjoy the scenery through the windows – and the first thing he would have thrown out were the marble coffee table. That was definitely too posh for Sherlock’s liking.

He went over to the window where a Victorian armchair stood – with its back turned towards the window. It was exactly how Miss Hunter had described it. He leaned down and inspected the piece of furniture and the floor beneath it. There was nothing unusual about it. To see it from Miss Hunter’s point of view, he took a seat. He could survey the whole room from there, but that was not why the Rucastles had wanted Mister Toller and Miss Hunter to sit in the chair. He drew his hand through his curls and sighed. Mister and Misses Rucastle hid something. And so did Mister Toller. They were all lying. Miss Hunter was right; something was off here. And it had nothing to do with his engagement to Molly. He froze the moment he realized what he had been thinking. It was a fake engagement, he corrected himself. He had done it before – with Janine. Only that they had not really been engaged. She had not even answered him. Instead she had fainted. He still considered her behaviour a bit rude. Sure, as it had turned out her unconscious state had had nothing to do with him proposing, but with her being knocked out.  Still, he had to admit that it had hurt his pride a bit that she had not screamed “Yes” the moment he had asked her. Who would not want to marry him? Of course, no one would really want to marry him the way he usually was, but the way he had behaved with Janine and how well he had played the devoted boyfriend, he had been sure that she would accept. Molly would have. But then, the pathologist was probably the only person who would also marry him the way he really was. This was a disturbing and also comforting thought. He did not know if it was disturbing, because it was also comforting or the other way around. He shook his head in order to get rid of this ridiculous way of thinking. He had to admit with Molly this whole being-together-thing was way easier than it had been with Janine. He did not mind touching Molly or being touched by her. They were… friends, and he knew he could trust her. But whereas it was rather easy for him, he knew how hard it must be for her. Of course he did not know, since he had never let himself feel such devotion for someone, but he could imagine. He may not have known a lot about human nature, but as opposed to public belief he was no machine either. He was capable of empathy. It was just useless most of the times. He knew it was wrong to treat Molly the way he had done since the last case. But he had deemed it necessary. In his eyes it had been self-preservation. He had not let John see it, but just for a moment he had been worried that Molly would refuse him. He knew that she never would if he needed something vital from her, but maybe his dismissive attitude in the last few weeks had been too much for her and she had decided that two could play this game. Luckily for him, Molly was still selfless, bordering on self-abandonment. He saw that Molly tried hard to act professional and play her part, but he knew that it hit a bit too close to home for her. He had always known she had fancied him – it did not take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that. But she had been the only one he could (and would) have asked to play his fiancée. She had been the rational choice, and he was nothing if not rational. That he also... cared... about her was just a bonus. Yes, caring was a disadvantage – the Not-Moriarty case had proven it again – but it could also be helpful at times. Would Molly not care about him, she would not have helped him fake his death, or come tonight. Did John not care about him he would not have a... blogger. If only caring didn’t make things so complicated and complex. Yes, he loved a complex puzzle, but...

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound outside the door. He could hear a dog barking. Finally Mary and John were approaching. They would help him focus on the case again. He got up and walked over to the sofa again. He had the distinct feeling, the position of the chair by the window was important. It was no coincidence why the Rucastles wanted their servants to sit at that exact spot. He cocked his head to the side to get a different angle, when he heard the door behind him being opened. For a moment the dog barking was heard more clearly as well as the sound of someone entering.         
Sherlock chided annoyed, not taking his eyes off the chair, “Don’t make so much noise! Even a deaf could hear you approaching.“   
But when he turned around, it were not the familiar features of John and Mary Watson that greeted him, but a fist that collided with his face. Thrown off balance, he tumbled backwards and tried to catch something to keep himself from falling. But it was in vain. His head collided with the marble table, and then he was surrounded by darkness.

 

**A/N:** _Working man_ : Writers: Daniel Wayne Sermon, Daniel Coulter Reynolds, Benjamin Arthur Mckee; Copyright: Songs Of Universal Inc., Imagine Dragons Publishing


	6. Mind blowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome (back) all my lovely old and new readers. Thank you for being so kind and sweet. And thank you to all the guests who have reviewed and I can’t PM back – I really appreciate it! 
> 
> I am so grateful for the help of Pipsis, my beta. Thank you!

** 6\. Mind blowing  **

“Scars are just another kind of memory.” – M.L. Stedman, _The light between oceans_

 

Sherlock Holmes did not have a lot of friends. He was fond of saying that he did not have any friends (he admitted once that he had only one friend). Just like he was fond of saying that he did not have a heart. But of course even he knew that both statements were not true. The matter of Sherlock’s heart (figuratively speaking, of course) was still a nebulous one, even to himself, although he made progress, but the answer to the question who his friends were, was clear as day. Most of them were waiting in a corridor at St Mary’s hospital in London. There were only a few missing: Mrs Hudson had a bad day because of her hip and had to stay at Baker Street, Lestrade (the name under which Sherlock knew him) was on a case, but would join them later, Mycroft did not count as friend, because he was family (one can choose their friends, not their family and if Sherlock had had a choice he presumably would not have chosen Mycroft) and The Woman was… The Woman probably did not count as friend either. Her relation to Sherlock would likely remain in the dark forever. Although she would send a single red rose the day after tomorrow. But his three dearest friends were waiting at the hospital for Sherlock Holmes to wake up. The peculiar thing about these three people was not only that they had chosen to be friends with an egomaniac narcissist who also happened to be a bit of a sociopath (one could argue they all had masochistic tendencies), but also that they were all very different: John was loyal and Sherlock’s moral compass. He could tell him what was socially acceptable and what not, and Sherlock would listen. Sometimes. John was also an adrenaline junkie and loved the exciting and dangerous life his friendship with the consulting detective provided. John’s wife Mary was in some sense a bit more like Sherlock, compared to her husband. She was trained in reading people, keeping secrets and understood Sherlock on a certain level. She was also trained to kill people (Sherlock had learned that the hard way). She was strong and independent. But as opposed to Sherlock, she understood human nature. Molly Hooper was neither a trained killer nor an adrenaline junkie, and sometimes she was naïve and shy. But she was intelligent, and she had an eye for detail. She may not have seen through the act of Jim from IT (not even Sherlock had), but she saw through the act that was “being Sherlock Holmes.” She was someone who liked to stay in the background most of the time, but when she was needed she would step forward and offer her help. Always.

And because they were so different, they had their different ways of coping with nervousness. John had been pacing the corridor since their arrival. His wife had tried to make him sit down, because his behaviour was driving her insane, but he would not listen to her. After her third try she had accepted that it was fruitless and had let him be. She, on the other side, had been sitting in the same chair since their arrival – more or less. She had gone up to get coffee at some point. When she had taken the first sip, she had almost regretted getting one, because it had tasted even more horrible than the coffee at St Bart’s. But then, she had been glad for the short distraction. Finding the coffee machine had taken her mind off the matter at hand; and if only for a few minutes. But apart from her search for the coffee machine, she had been sat in the same chair rather stoically all night. Mary knew that there was nothing they could do but wait. Did she hate it? Of course. Who did not hate being helpless, but she had learned to accept that sometimes sitting and waiting was the only thing one could do. While John had been pacing and Mary sitting unmoving, Molly had stood by the window most of the time. She had been staring outside, but not really seeing anything. Cars had gone by and night had turned into day, but she had not realized. Only when the first rays of sunshine had touched her pale face, had she noticed that the night was over and that she was still holding the cup of coffee in her hand that Mary had brought her some time ago. No need to mention that it had turned cold by now. She had wrung her hands several times and had always touched the engagement ring in the process. Another thing she had not noticed doing. Her mind had been occupied with thoughts of hope and fear – never able to decide on which to hold onto.

What had begun as a nice – yet odd – evening out had turned into a nightmare rather quickly. Sherlock’s friends had done as he had told them: Molly had gone to find Mrs Rucastle to have a chat with her while the married couple had left to join the consulting detective in the sitting room. But when they had arrived there, they had been shocked to find him lying unconscious on the floor, his head in a pool of blood. It had seemed like he had hit his head on the marble table. John doubted that Sherlock had stumbled and then hit his head – the consulting detective was anything but clumsy – but suspected that someone had knocked him out and his head had collided with the table in the process. Although the head wound had been bleeding, John and Mary had not thought it to be serious at first – a laceration, nothing more. But when all attempts to wake their friend had been unsuccessful, they had started to worry. Mary had gone to fetch Molly, and John had called the ambulance. Needless to say that the Rucastles had not been amused about the disturbance of their party. And it goes without saying that Sherlock’s friends did not care (Sherlock could not mind, since he had still been unconscious). Paramedics had not been able to wake the consulting detective either and even before any of the three friends could have thought about it, Mycroft Holmes had called them, telling them that a helicopter would be waiting for them at the hospital to take them back to London where Sherlock would get the treatment he needed. John, Mary and Molly had not even bothered to be surprised about Mycroft knowing what had happened. They had learned to take his omniscience for granted and not ask any questions. The helicopter – with a doctor – had waited for them as advised and had taken them to St Mary’s hospital in London. And there they had spent the rest of the night; Sherlock being treated by various doctors and still not waking up in his room and his three friends wide awake and worried sick waiting in the corridor. They knew all too well that staying unconscious after a head injury was not to be taken lightly.    

“What about his parents? Have you talked to his parents, John?” Mary suddenly asked out of the blue. John and Molly were both a bit startled by her question. Not because of its content, but because not a word had been spoken between them in the last hour. John stopped his pacing for a moment and turned to his wife. “No, but I am sure Mycroft did. We can ask him once he’s here.” The former army doctor sighed deeply and drew a hand over his face. “If he turns up at all. With him you never know…” Mary stretched and got up. She glanced at her watch, yawned and walked over to her husband. “John, I’m afraid I need to get back home to the little one. And finally change into something more comfortable.” The blonde was desperate to get out of her violet gown. It looked nice, but it was not suited for sitting in a hospital the whole night long. John took a look at his watch too, before he nodded and kissed his wife goodbye. “Alright. Give her a kiss from me.” “I will. Call me as soon as he wakes up.” John nodded, Mary waved Molly goodbye and then left to get home to her baby girl.

* * *

 

About an hour after Mary’s departure, the door to Sherlock’s room opened and doctor Moreau (he had introduced himself upon their arrival) stepped out. He walked over to where Molly and John were standing by the window. John had finally given up pacing and had taken a place next to the pathologist. When they heard doctor Moreau approaching they turned around and looked at him. Both wore an expression that was a mix between hope and trepidation. Without further ado doctor Moreau told them, “Mr Holmes has finally woken up, and he demands to see his fiancée.” With that he looked at the petite pathologist who stared at him with wide eyes. But before she or John could react, doctor Moreau had already turned around and was walking away. Helplessly Molly looked towards the man next to her who sighed deeply, took hold of her arm and guided her to Sherlock’s room. While doing so he mumbled sarcastically, “Great, now he has lost his mind.”

* * *

 

As soon as Molly’s eyes fell on the consulting detective in his hospital bed, she could not help but think that his face and the sheets were almost of the same colour. His eyes were bloodshot and his head bandaged. Still she was glad to see his eyes open again, staring at them. They approached his bed, John taking the lead and Molly staying close behind. “Hey mate, how are you doing?” John asked, standing next to his best friend. But the consulting detective more or less ignored him and had only eyes for the petite woman next to him. “Why are you standing over there? Come here,” the pale man in the bed ordered. His voice was low and rasp. Molly looked around the room confused, as if she was not sure that Sherlock was really talking to her. It was obvious that John was a bit baffled as well, but he stepped aside and motioned Molly to get closer. She hesitantly did as asked and took John’s place next to Sherlock. “How are you feeling, Sherlock?” she asked with a shy smile. But instead of answering, the injured man sat up slowly in his bed, took Molly’s hand and pulled her down towards him for an embrace. The pathologist froze and was too stunned to return the gesture. Sherlock held her in place, and when he did not make any attempt to let her go, she turned her head slightly and whispered into his ear, “Are we still undercover?” That made him finally draw back, and now he was the one to look confused. John took a step closer again, having the feeling that something was off. “Sherlock, are you okay? Are you feeling light headed or anything?” The patient slowly cocked his head to the side and regarded his best friend. “Why are you calling me that?” “What do you mean?” John had a bad feeling. “Why are you calling me Sherlock?” John took another step closer. “Because it’s your name.” Sherlock looked taken aback. “You know my name is William.” His voice had its typical don’t-be-ridiculous-tone. John glanced towards Molly, who looked about as clueless as John felt and started to have a bad feeling about the situation as well. “Who am I?” she asked Sherlock. “Molly,” he answered swiftly. She sighed relieved, because he knew who she was and her fears had been unfounded, but then he specified, “My fiancée.” Then again, maybe he didn’t know. She and John shared a look, when she felt Sherlock grab her left hand and touch her ring, as if proving his point. Molly’s eyes snapped towards him and her heart clenched. She swallowed and tried to draw a deep breath, because the way Sherlock was looking at her told her that something was definitely wrong. Granted, he was a great actor, but not even he could play that well. It would give method acting a whole new meaning. And why would they still have to keep up the charade? It did not make sense. Slowly Molly extracted her hand from Sherlock’s grip and turned to face John who stared at their friend in the same desperate and confused manner as she did. “John,” she whispered, “I’m afraid you were right: He has lost his mind.”


	7. A Case of Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I read A Case of Identity for the first time, I thought that it would make a great title for a story about amnesia. Year later, I’m writing one and I seriously contemplated naming it so, but then Copper Beaches happened ;-) Still I could not resist using it as a chapter title. 
> 
> I know there are a lot of different forms of amnesia and all are very complex. Generally I do my research properly and use credible sources (uni makes you that way…), but this time I had this idea and I didn’t want medical facts to ruin it. Subsequently the correct medical facts in this chapter are something I remembered from ER. In my defence: My plot bunny made me do it. 
> 
> Pipsis, you are the best!!!!

7\. **A Case of Identity**

“Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.” – Arthur Conan Doyle, _A Case of Identity_

 

Molly felt ridiculously out of place in her long, elegant gown while the doctors and nurses in lab coats and scrubs were passing her by. She wished for her own lab coat at the moment. Maybe wearing it would have given her some desperately needed confidence. The only comforting thought was that John looked just as out of place in his black suit. Mycroft, on the other hand, did not look out of place in a suit, not even here in the fluorescent lights of the hospital. Maybe it was because Mycroft Holmes would look ridiculous without a suit. Molly could not help but imagine the elder Holmes at home in sweatpants and a hideous jumper. That thought made her smile and almost laugh. John realized and turned towards her, “Penny for your thoughts.” Molly waved it off. “Nothing, just...” She sighed deeply. John drew a hand through his hair. “This waiting drives me crazy. There must be something we can do.” John had tried to stay at Sherlock’s side, being his doctor, but they would not let him. After protests from his side and some calming words from Molly, he had finally given up. When they had realized that Sherlock seemed confused, they had called Doctor Moreau. He had decided to run some further tests to know more about the extent of Sherlock’s injuries. The patient had not really complained and had endured most of it without protest. That alone was proof enough for his friends that something was very wrong with him. The Sherlock Holmes they knew would not only have protested, but also insulted and deduced all of the people in the room in a single long sentence without taking a breath. Not long after Sherlock had been brought to radiology, his older brother had arrived. He had not asked any questions about the state of his brother and they had not told him anything. They had assumed he already knew. And if not, he would have asked them or the doctors if he had wanted to know. But he had not. He had only sat in one of the chairs outside of Sherlock’s room and had waited silently. A few times he had gone away to make a phone call and while seated in his chair he had tapped away on his phone most of the time.

* * *

 

The hours had gone by slowly. John had phoned Mary a few times, asking about their daughter and always having to tell her that there was nothing new regarding their best man.     
At noon, Molly had just left to get them something to eat (Mycroft had answered her question about lunch with a dismissive wave of his hand), Doctor Moreau approached them again and addressed Mycroft, ”Mister Holmes, I’d like to talk to you for a minute.” John assumed they already knew each other and Mycroft had sent for him, because they had not been introduced to each other by him or Molly. Mycroft got up and so did John. The elder Holmes nodded and got ready to follow the doctor, but when John was about to do the same, Doctor Moreau turned towards him, “I need to speak to Mister Holmes, alone.” He put the emphasis on the last word.   
”But I am his doctor and... family... kind of...,” John tried to protest.   
”John, I appreciate your concern, but I will talk to Doctor Moreau alone at first,” Mycroft stated firmly.   
John thought about putting up a fight, but knew that he was too tired and exhausted to win an argument with the British government. So he could only watch Doctor Moreau and Mycroft leave him behind.

* * *

 

One and a half hours passed until John saw Doctor Moreau again. Molly was at John’s side again and looked up at the man in the lab coat with tired eyes. ”Miss Hooper, Mister Watson, sorry for keeping you waiting for so long,” he said. John looked around the corridor. “Where is Mycroft?”   
”He is gone. He said he had some important business to attend and then needed to talk to his parents about his brother’s condition.”   
John snorted and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “typical.”   
Doctor Moreau pulled a chair towards them and the three of them sat down. ”We did some tests on Mr Holmes and had a talk with his brother and of course with Mr Holmes himself. It seems like his injuries are more severe than we have initially thought.”   
John grew impatient. “We already know that. But what’s the matter with him?”   
Molly laid a hand on John’s arm in order to calm him down. He did not say more, but waited for an answer.   
Doctor Moreau started to explain, “Mister Holmes suffers from a severe head trauma. The sharp blow to the head resulted in a concussion, and the tests showed a swelling in the brain. It seems that Mr Holmes is suffering from memory loss, to be exact, from retrograde post-traumatic and dissociative amnesia. As you may know, brain injuries are complex and every case is different.”   
Both Molly and John stared at the doctor. They had suspected something like that, but hearing it now made it very real all of a sudden.   
”But he knew us,” Molly interjected, “he knew my name, he only seemed to mix up some facts.”   
Doctor Moreau nodded, “Yes. He has not lost all of his memory. Despite popular believe, a complete loss of memory is relatively rare. The episodic memory is more effected than the semantic one, therefore general knowledge is remembered by the patient and Ribot’s law applies as well.”   
”Ribot’s law?” Molly asked.   
”It means that the memory is temporally graded. Events nearest to the trauma are hardest to remember again,” John explained.   
When Molly looked at him quizzically, he shrugged, “Being an army doctor you have to deal with traumatized patients on a regular basis.”   
Doctor Moreau went on, “Dr Watson is right and that’s why the memory of the circumstances surrounding the case Mister Holmes had been working on are most influenced. Through my talks with his older brother and you two and Mr Holmes himself, it seems as if his brain has constructed new memories out of the back-story he has made up for the case.”   
John shook his head. “I don’t understand. Which back-story?”   
”It seems as if Mr Holmes is convinced that his name is William and you are his fiancée, Ms Hooper. Mycroft set it right and told me you are his pathologist.”   
“I am not his pathologist. Well, I am, but…” Molly was at a loss of words.   
So Doctor Moreau continued his explanation, “He created kind of a new identity, but based on his real autobiography. It differs only slightly from reality.”   
Molly gaped, “Slightly?! He thinks I am engaged to him!”   
Now it was John’s turn to lay a hand on Molly’s in an attempt to calm her down. Granted, he was having a hard time himself staying calm and collected, but he knew they needed to let the doctor finish. There would be time to freak out later.   
“So, you’re saying that he is confused about certain aspects of his personal life?” John asked.   
Doctor Moreau nodded. “He is unable to recall autobiographical based knowledge, but the general knowledge about the world is usually unaffected in such cases.”   
John scoffed, “That doesn’t matter, he doesn’t have such a thing as general knowledge about the world.”   
Doctor Moreau gave him a funny look, but went on, “He shows strong signs of confabulation. He has created himself a false history that is fabricated by distorted and misinterpreted memories, but honestly believes it to be true. He has access to some parts of his memory, to others he doesn’t.”   
Sherlock’s blogger sighed deeply. “And what do we do now? I mean, there is no actual cure for memory loss. How should we deal with it? Do we confront him with the truth?”   
The doctor held up a hand. “No, that would be the worst thing to do. He is very fragile in this state. Patients suffering from confabulation tend to paranoia and aggressive behaviour when confronted with the truth. They are confused and have a hard time understanding their environment. That’s why they have felt the need to invent new details about their past in the first place. His environment should act as normal as possible. A familiar environment, and a normal daily routine are of the essence. Exposing patients to memories from the loss can help, but it takes time. It is a complex process, and as I’ve said before, every case is different. As you have said so yourself, Doctor Watson, there is no actual cure, but exposing the patient to the past will speed up the rate of recall. Memory is usually recovered due to spontaneous recovery, but if and when is unpredictable.”   
Sherlock’s friends stared at the doctor for some time and let the information sink in. “So basically you’re saying, “ concluded John, “that we should play along. We should not tell him the truth. We should lie to him?” The former army doctor was getting angry.  
“No. What I am saying is that you should play along, but you can correct him on minor details.”   
“And I don’t suppose me being his fiancée does count as minor detail?” Molly piped in sarcastically.   
Doctor Moreau nodded, “You suppose right. Try to play along with the back-story he has constructed. And if you are correcting him, make sure that you’ll have a logical explanation.”   
The pathologist had another question, “And how are we supposed to know what he believes to be true? We don’t know which back-story he has created for the case.”   
Now the doctor looked a bit helpless himself and shrugged. “I’m afraid that is something you’ll have to figure out bit by bit.”   
John drew a hand over his face. “This is… I don’t know… I mean, when Sherlock still had his memory I was not sure what was going on this complicated mind of his most of the time. How are we supposed to figure it out now?”   
“I am sorry, Doctor Watson. I understand that this a difficult situation for all involved but I strongly recommend following my advice. Neurological disturbances change emotional responses and therefore Mr Holmes is likely to behave differently than from before the accident. He should not be confronted with his new created identity just yet.”   
Molly and John stood there unmoving and speechless. There were so many questions to ask, so many ifs and buts, yet they could not manage to verbalize them. And even if they could, what would it had been good for? It would not have changed the situation. Doctor Moreau felt that he was not needed here anymore and got up. “Doctor Hooper, Doctor Watson, I have other patients to see as well. If you’ll excuse me?”   
The other two got up too and shook hands with the doctor. Molly was not able to say something, so John did the talking, “Of course. Thank you, Doctor Moreau.”   
“You’re welcome. If you have any questions don’t hesitate to contact me or my staff.”   
“We will. Thank you.” Doctor Moreau nodded once again and then left them alone to come to terms with the new developments.


	8. Lost: A Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for being so fantastic!!! And welcome to the new readers! 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta Pipsis – she’s quite the busy little bee! ;-)

** 8\. Lost: A Mind  **

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” ― [Marcel Proust](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/233619.Marcel_Proust)

 

“Now what?” Molly was the first to break the silence with her question. They did not know how much time had passed since Doctor Moreau had walked away. For them it felt like hours or days. For people who had not just been told that their best friend suffered from amnesia, it had been 12 minutes. John cleared his throat and answered with unmistakable uncertainty in his voice, “It won’t get better by standing outside his room.”   
“So, you think we should get in and talk to him?”   
“What else can we do?” John looked utterly helpless.   
It didn’t make Molly feel any better. “I don’t know. It’s just... I mean... We don’t even know what the undercover story is that he has constructed.”  
John sighed deeply and realized that he had done that a lot in the last 12 hours. “No we don’t, but the only way to find out is to go in there and talk to him. We have to test out the waters what he believes to be the truth.”   
The former soldier was about to open the door to Sherlock’s room, when Molly’s voice made him pause, “I don’t know if I can do that, John. I’m afraid.”   
When he turned around to look at his friend, he was shocked to see tears in her eyes. She was having a hard time holding them back. She looked so fragile and lost standing there in her beautiful dress and her eyes pleading with him that this was all a bad dream and soon she would wake up with a pounding headache, because she had had too much wine at the Rucastles. John could sympathize with her. He wished the same. Taking a deep breath he went over to the pathologist and embraced her. He needed her with him when facing Sherlock. Sherlock needed her. He may have been Sherlock’s doctor, but she was his pathologist.

* * *

 

 

As opposed to Molly Hooper and John Watson, Sherlock Holmes did not wish for a headache, because he already suffered from one. The worst headache of his life so far. The painkillers did not help and given his history with drugs they refused to give him stronger ones. But he figured it was for the better. He did not want to be slapped by Molly again. Funny thing that just when he was wondering where she was, the door to his room opened and in came is best friend John Morstan and his fiancée Molly Hooper. He smiled at them, because he was glad to see some familiar faces. The talks with Doctor Moreau and Mycroft had exhausted him. Having a conversation with his dear brother on a good day was barely bearable, but when being in hospital and suffering from a head trauma it was a different matter altogether.

Molly and John went over to stand next to his bed. He reached for his fiancée’s hand and was surprised to see her hesitate before she grabbed his. Her hesitation shouldn’t have stung, but it did. She looked like she had been crying and tried to avoid his gaze. He was just about to ask her what the matter was, when John beat him to it, “How are you doing, mate?”   
Sherlock sat up slowly in his bed (he still felt a bit dizzy), but kept Molly’s hand firmly in his. Somehow he knew that she would pull away as soon as he would let go of her. Her small hand felt familiar, yet strange in his. His hands felt unnaturally numb, displaced from his body and somehow out of scope of his conscious command. And his voice felt disembodied when he answered his friend, “I’ve got a massive headache, but apart from that...” His voice trailed off, looking for the next thing to say, but finding his head uncharacteristically empty.   
John nodded gravely before he continued, “I assume Doctor Moreau and Mycroft have filled you in?”   
“If you mean that they’ve told me that I am suffering from a concussion and a mild form of retrograde amnesia and mix some things up, then yes, they have.”   
John nodded again and was looking for the next thing to say, but Sherlock went on, “But it’s not as serious as they think. Apart from what happened right before I got knocked out I remember everything quite clearly. I don’t miss any rooms in my mind palace.” The way Sherlock said that with absolute conviction made his friends cringe.   
John cleared his throat. “So, you know who we are?” he asked tentatively.   
Sherlock scoffed, “Of course I do. You are my best friend John Morstan and this is my fiancée Molly Hooper – soon to be Holmes.” He squeezed her hand and smiled openly at her. Not the fake-smile, but a genuine one, wide and carefree.  Molly had a hard time not pulling her hand away and fleeing from the room. This was too weird to be true.   
“Well ...,” John replied and scratched his head, which looked exactly like the helpless gesture it was, “that is almost accurate.”   
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him. “What do you mean almost?”   
“My name is John, and I am your best friend, but my surname is Watson and not Morstan.”   
For a moment there was silence in the room and Sherlock did not move. He sat there unblinking. The consulting detective’s friends held their breath. They had no idea how he would react. Would he shout and call John stupid, would he retreat into his mind palace – never to return? Slowly Sherlock’s eyes focused on John again and he asked, “Are you sure?” The words sounded like he was testing how they felt on his tongue.   
“Well, ... yes, I am quite sure I know what my surname is, Sherlock.”   
The man in the bed cocked his head to the side. “Why do you call me that?”   
“What?” Now John was the one to be confused.   
“You call me Sherlock.”   
“That’s your name.”   
The detective slowly shook his head. He already had a headache, and he didn’t want to make it worse. “Sherlock is my second name. My first name is William.”   
Molly and John looked at each other. She had no idea how to explain it without giving away the truth. Although it was the truth that Sherlock was his second name, and she did not know why he chose to be called by that and not by his first name. She hoped John would come up with some explanation. She was lucky, because he did. Or at least he tried to, “Yes, but you want to be called Sherlock. It is more extraordinary, suit’s you better.” John joked and hoped that his friend would buy that.   
But of course his friend did not so without protest, “Why would I want that? As opposed to Sherlock, William is a nice name. After all, I share it with one of the princes. Why would I want people to call me Sherlock instead?”   
John shrugged and looked at Molly for help. “I don’t know, maybe… wait… You know that one of the prince’s names is William?”   
Sherlock sounded affronted, “Of course I do. What kind of British citizen would I be if I did not know such a thing?” John took a step closer and tested the sudden gained knowledge about the royal family of his friend, “Do you also know the name of the current king?” Sherlock sounded irritated.  “King? John, what are you talking about? It seems like you are the one suffering from amnesia.”   
John waved a hand and tried his best to hide his surprise. “Never mind.”   
The detective went back to their initial topic, “So, why would I prefer a weird name like Sherlock to a royal one like William?”   
John shrugged helpless and started to feel frustrated. “I don’t know.”   
He was not the only one, because his best friend seemed to lose his patience bit by bit too. His voice got louder when he accused John, “You are my best friend, you are supposed to know stuff like that!”   
“No, you are supposed to know stuff like that!” John yelled. He and Sherlock stared each other down for a moment and Molly stood between them, not knowing what to do.   
Finally it was John who released a breath he had been holding. “I am sorry, Molly, but I need to get out of here for a moment. See you later.” With one last look at his best friend he turned around and left.

* * *

 

As soon as John had left the room, Molly felt the tension drain from Sherlock’s shoulders. He loosened the strong hold he had had on her hand, but did not let go. She felt his gaze on her, but did not dare to look him in the eyes. What was she supposed to do now? She was alone with him now. It had been too much for John. How was she supposed to deal with it? There must have been something she could say to make it better. But what? She was still trying to untangle the knot of explanations that filled her head, when she heard his voice, “So it seems I am mixing some things up?”   
Never before had she heard him sound so uncertain. And Sherlock Holmes being uncertain was just wrong. It turned her whole world upside down. She gathered up all her courage and looked him in the eyes. He tried to hide it, but she could see the confusion and fear. In that moment she realized that she had been selfish. It was not her, for whom this situation was a nightmare, it was him. Before her was Sherlock Holmes, the man with the most brilliant mind, and now he had lost part of it, and he did not even know it. He just knew that something was wrong. And if there was something that Sherlock Holmes hated then it was not knowing. She needed to be strong. She needed to be there for him and help him; not matter what it took. And if she had to play his fiancée, so be it. She turned her hand in his grip so that she could stroke his hand with her thumb, in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.   
She was anxious to let her voice sound calm and gentle, “Yes, you mix some things up, but those are just minor details. We’ll help you figure it out. Everything will be back to normal in no time. Don’t worry.”   
He closed his eyes for a moment to let her words sink in. He squeezed her hand lightly when he asked, “Are you sure it’s only about minor details? I did not forget something important, did I?”   
He gazed from the ring adorning her left hand to her face and the look in his eyes and her next words that came out almost choked up, broke her heart, “Yes, I am sure. You remember everything that is really important.”

Little did Molly Hooper know that she was closer to the truth than she was to a lie.


	9. Make up your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dear Readers, Thanks for sticking with me and welcome to the new ones. Enjoy the next installment. Thanks for all the kudos! They've made my day!
> 
> Pipsis, you are fantastic!

** 9\. Make up your Mind  **

“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still want to help me?” – _The Reichenbach Falls_

 

 

After 18 hours in the hospital Molly had finally gone home. She had discharged her dress and stuffed it into the bottom of her laundry basket. She had not wanted to see it anymore. She had had the fear that it would always remind her of the day when Sherlock Holmes had lost part of his mind and her life had become a complicated mess. But who was she fooling? When it came to Sherlock, nothing was ever free of complication. Ever. She had showered and had been sure sleep would not find her, because so many thoughts were spinning around in her head. Still she had gone to bed, and if just to rest her legs. But the events of the last 24 hours had taken its toll on her and as soon as she closed her eyes she had fallen asleep.

* * *

 

On the next day they had kind of a meeting in the café of St Mary’s hospital. “They” meant Molly, John and Greg. Mary and the baby were at Baker Street to talk to Mrs Hudson about the situation. Although Molly had slept, she looked exhausted. And so did John. The former army doctor took a sip of his coffee and informed them, “I had another talk with Mycroft yesterday. He told me that it was of the essence to follow the doctor’s orders. He had told their parents about the situation. Of course they had wanted to come visit Sherlock right away and take him back home, but Mycroft could convince them that it was crucial for his recovery to keep him in London – in his natural environment. His words, not mine.” John smiled weakly and the others did the same.  
Lestrade nodded and gripped the cup of coffee in his hand a bit tighter. He had not visited Sherlock yet. John had suggested to have a chat first. “So, Sherlock has amnesia? Like on TV?” the detective inspector asked.  
John shook his head. “No, people on TV generally suffer from dissociative fugue. And in reality this particular form of amnesia is extremely rare.”  
Greg tried to understand, “Okay… but Sherlock does not know who he is.”  
“He knows who he is, he’s just the wrong person,” Molly clarified.  
Greg shook his head. “Now I am confused.”  
Sherlock’s blogger tried to explain it to the DI, “He thinks the back-story he made up for the case is true. He knows most things, he just confuses some things to be true that are not.”  
“Like that Molly is his fiancée?” Greg gestured towards their female friend, who nodded slowly and then stared into her mug.  
John went on, “The problem is that we don’t know what the back-story is. So we’ll have to find out bit by bit and then react according to the situation. We’ll have to play along and we all have to play our parts according to his script.”  
Greg chuckled, “That’s nothing new then. Doesn’t he always get us to do what he wants us to?”  
A small smile played on Molly’s and John’s lips, because they had to agree with their friend. “I don’t want to play it down,” John went on, “but we all know that Molly has the hardest part.” He made a small pause. “Sherlock will be released in two days – they want to keep him for monitoring in case the swelling of the brain expands – and until then we’ll have some things to do. You know what I am talking about, don’t you, Molly?”  
The woman in question looked shocked at him. “No, I don’t know what you are talking about.”  
John cleared his throat, “Well, I am talking about living arrangements.” He waited a moment for Molly to catch on, but when she didn’t he explained further, “You’ll need to move in with him.”  
“What?” Molly exclaimed so that the people at the other tables were looking at them for a moment.  
John did his best to sound calm and collected, “Mycroft told me that Sherlock is under the impression that the two of you are living together at Baker Street. And since you are engaged I only think that’s logical.”  
Said engaged woman did not want to hear any of that. “I don’t care if it’s logical! I can’t pay rent twice!”  
“I doubt Sherlock would expect rent from you,” John assure her. “And even if, we’ll find a solution. There must be some advantage in knowing Mycroft, after all,” he tried for humour to lighten the situation.  
The two men regarded Molly as she thought about it. She knew she had to play her part and John was right. It was only logic that she would live together with her fiancé (although she had not shared a flat with Tom), but she had not thought what this whole situation entailed. And now she realized that this would not be the last time she would have to face the consequences of playing a part in this amnesia drama. She had made up her mind to be there for Sherlock and it would be cowardly to back off now, at the first sight of complication. It was like John had said, there was nothing they could do than react according to the situation, and the current situation was that Sherlock was convinced that they shared a flat. Therefore she had to deal with it. Sherlock had asked her once if she would help him if he wasn’t everything she thought he was – everything _he_ thought he was. Now was the time to prove to him that she would. He might not have known who he was, but she did and she would help him see it again. With new found strength Molly looked into the faces of the men before her and asked, “What do I need to do?”

* * *

 

For the next two days Sherlock’s friends were busy taking turns on visiting their friend in hospital and moving Molly’s things into Baker Street. Sherlock started to get bored in hospital (he had already deduced every single person that worked in the wing) and his friends got worried that he might try to escape and go home sooner than planned. Therefore they tried to have someone have an eye on him all the time. Sherlock seemed to become more like his old self day by day. When with him, his friends tried to figure out what he thought his relation to certain people was or how much he knew about the Rucastle case. As it turned out, he remembered everything, apart from who had knocked him out. He said that he had not seen the face. Although Sherlock got better, his change in personality was still disturbing for his friends. He made rude comments from time to time and he was still brilliant in his observations, but he was nice and friendly as well. Especially towards Molly he was always gentle and tried to initiate physical contact every time she visited him. For instance, he always took her hand when she sat by his bed. Once he had also tried to kiss her, but Molly had managed to pull back, uttering an excuse that she had forgotten something and had to leave. The look of rejection he had given her had hurt her to no end. And she knew that sooner or later she would run out of excuses and he would confront her. She was his fiancée after all, why should she not want to kiss him? Still she hoped for the confrontation to happen later and not sooner and maybe until then she would have come to terms with this odd situation, or he would have remembered everything correctly. 

While Sherlock was still in hospital, John and Molly did some research on Sherlock’s condition. All papers on retrograde amnesia agreed that under no circumstances the patient should face situations that could cause emotional turmoil – that might make his condition worse. Of course this was extremely hard with someone like Sherlock Holmes. For ordinary people kidnapping and homicide were things that were considered to cause emotional turmoil, but for an extraordinary person like Sherlock it was considered daily business. And from what his friends could tell, Sherlock was determined to take up the case of the Rucastles as soon as he was out of hospital. Being knocked out in the sitting room had only confirmed his suspicion that Mr Rucastle was hiding something. Therefore they decided to act as normal as possible and let Sherlock play in his “natural environment.” 

Sherlock’s time in hospital went by in a blink and the day came when the consulting detective was allowed to return to his beloved home that was 221B Baker Street. 

* * *

 

 

**A/N: Sorry for the lack of Sherlolly interaction in this chapter, but I promise to make it up to you in the next ones.**


	10. Dead to the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, all my love to my readers! 
> 
> Anna loves amnesia Eric (Southern Vampire Mysteries, True Blood), so I thought she might like amnesia Sherlock as well. ;-)  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Sherlock or Dead to the World. The credit for the sentence I borrowed from the latter (albeit a bit altered) goes to Charlaine Harris, whom I will never forgive for what she did to Eric in the end. 
> 
> Once again my dear beta Pipsis went out to hunt down my mistakes. Thank you!

** 10\. Dead to the World  **

“There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.” ― Harold Pinter, _Old Times_

 

One might say that the interior of 221B Baker Street was quite atypical. Not many people decorated their flat with skulls, experiments and body parts (apart from crazy serial killer, probably). But then again Sherlock Holmes was an atypical person. He lived in – what he used to call – organized chaos (his not-housekeeper preferred the term “mess”). He hated it when people touched his things or (heaven forbid!) put them away. He had his own system, and he depended on it. Some people might have called it OCD. But Molly Hooper was not “some people” and she had always understood that, and that was why she was so worried when she climbed the stairs to 221B together with its inhabitant. Together with their friends she had brought her stuff here, because the situation demanded that she became Sherlock’s new flatmate. Well, in his world she was way more than only his flatmate, but in order to keep herself from freaking out, she had decided to use that term when thinking about her new living arrangements. Since they all knew how peculiar Sherlock was in terms of his organized chaos, they had been hesitant to put things away or – Heaven forbid! – throw something away to make room for Molly’s stuff. Therefore the pathologist had only brought what was absolutely necessary to give the impression that she was in fact sharing a flat with her fiancé. Apart from toiletries, she had brought some books, medical journals and of course clothes (Molly had been confused at first when John insisted on her bringing all her dresses. But he had explained to her that Sherlock knew there to be 6 short dresses, excluding the one she had bought for the wedding, and two long ones. Molly had decided to throw away the black one with the sequins. She knew Sherlock did not like it, and now she had the blue one, although she still could not look at it.)   Of course there was one thing that would not blend in to Sherlock’s decoration of the flat. It was not a thing to be precise, but Molly’s former flatmate: her cat Toby. When Sherlock had used her flat as a blot hole, he had more or less ignored the feline. He had been quite indifferent to the tomcat. The feeling had been mutual. She had had a talk with her beloved tabby (as you can imagine it was rather one sided) and had explained to him why they had to move and had begged him to behave. For once Toby had done as he was told, and Molly was glad that he seemed to like his new (temporary – she told herself time and time again) home. Sherlock’s friends had been unsure of what to do with John’s old room. It was still in the same state as the former flatmate had left it. They had no idea what Sherlock, in his momentary state of mind, thought was up there. In the end they had decided to put some of Molly’s stuff that did not really fit anywhere else up there, but to leave it untouched otherwise.  

When Sherlock walked into his flat, he looked around in the room is his typical manner, deducing everything. Molly started to have a bad feeling. They had done their best to leave his things where they had been and only to add an item of Molly’s possession here and there. They had been convinced that they had done a good job, but the pathologist feared they had been wrong. Toby was lying on John’s chair which he had annexed the moment Molly had brought him here. “You redecorated,” Sherlock accused her. Molly’s heart sank. “Yeees, … a bit… I had to keep myself busy in the evenings while you were in hospital.” She surprised herself with the logic of her explanation.  
He nodded in understanding. “I see. I like it.”  
“Really?!” she could not help but exclaim in disbelieve. Sherlock turned to her and knitted his brow in confusion. Molly tried to find a way out of the situation. “I mean... Good.” What else was she supposed to say?  
He smirked and took a dangerous step closer and suddenly Molly found herself trapped between the wall and Sherlock. She had no idea how that had happened, and she started to panic a bit. “But now there’s no need to keep yourself busy with moving decoration around the shelves, because I’m back,” he said in a voice that would have made a 0909-number proud and put both hands on either side of her head, making sure she stayed where she was and pressed her further against the wall. Only once had she been so close to him before, after he had rescued her from her kidnappers and had embraced her fiercely. She had been as perplexed then as she was now, but still this felt totally different. Back then he had been the saviour she had run to and now he was the danger she needed to get away from. She swallowed hard and tried to keep her breathing and her beating heart under control. His eyes searched her face and then they settled on her mouth. Would it have been any other man, she would have said he wanted to kiss her, but because it was Sherlock Holmes he was probably only making a deduction about what she had last eaten from looking at her lips, or thinking how small they were. But then she realized with horror that this was in fact not Sherlock Holmes, at least not the one that would make a cutting comment about her appearance, but that he really wanted to kiss her. No, she had to correct herself again, he did not only want to kiss her, he was about to kiss her. Slowly he tilted his head to the side, to get a better angle and leaned forward. There was no way Molly could escape his kiss. Sure she had always wanted this to happen, but not like that. Her hands trembled while they were desperately trying to find something to hold onto that were not the lapels of the coat or the chest of the man in front of her. She tried to tell herself that she should try to picture someone else and just get it over with. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to descend on hers, when a shrill voice from downstairs was heard, “Yoo-hoo!”  
The moment was broken. Sherlock bowed his head and Molly opened her eyes and breathed in relief, “It’s Mrs Hudson.” She would have to thank the landlady later.  
Sherlock shook his head and growled, “No, that’s the end of the world.” He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the door. “I’ll just go downstairs to say hello. I’ll be back soon.” He winked and then exited.

Molly drew a hand over her face and asked herself how she was supposed to survive this without getting her heart broken – again. Sure she had known that she would have to hug and kiss Sherlock sooner or later. She was supposed to be his fiancée after all. But she had thought it to be easier. She had not imagined she would feel so nervous and insecure. She had told herself time and time again in the last few days that this was all just a play. She was just an actress who played the part of a (relatively) young, nice pathologist who happened to be married to the world’s only consulting detective. It was all fake and it meant nothing. Nada. Rien. Niente. That had been her mantra. But now, being so close to the man she loved, she had a hard time believing in it.

She put her coat on the hanger, petted Toby and went over to the mantelpiece. While thinking she absentmindedly stroked the skull that surveilled the flat from there. It was a strangely comforting feeling. She was contemplating how to proceed and how to distract Sherlock to keep his hands off her. She chuckled. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought that one day this would become one of her problems.  
“I see you are sharing a joke with Billy?” She had been so lost in thought that she had not heard the owner of the flat enter. He had hung up his coat as well and walked towards her with a smile on his face. Molly still thought that this expression looked wrong on him. He scratched Toby behind the ears while passing him and came to stand next to Molly at the mantelpiece. Molly reminded herself that she had to keep Sherlock occupied so she gestured towards the skull with her head and asked, “Why did you call him Billy? Why not…,” she searched her mind for a suitable name for a skull and of course could only come up with the most obvious one, “Yorick?”  
Sherlock clutched his hands over his heart as if in pain and recited, “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!”  
Molly gave him an odd look, like he’d been replaced by a not-so-very-convincing-Sherlockclone.  
He cleared his throat and shrugged, “What’s the matter? You know why I called him Billy, his name was Billy,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
Not knowing what to say to that Molly changed the subject – kind of, “I was wondering where you keep your souvenirs from you cases?” While bringing her stuff over, she had noticed the absence of said souvenirs. Sherlock looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “You know very well that John’s the one to keep all the useless cufflinks and tie pins. Why would I need souvenirs?”  
Molly nervously glanced around the room and shrugged, “I… I don’t know…” Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, as if this whole conversation amused him.  
When Molly didn’t say anything else, he left her standing by the fireplace and informed her, “I’m going to take a shower. I need to wash the smell of hospital off me. Don’t hesitate to join me if you want.” He smirked at her and then disappeared into the bathroom.

Needless to say that Molly did not follow his invitation, but stayed well out of the bathroom while he was in there. She tried to busy herself in the kitchen, making some tea for both of them. Since it was quite late she did not bother with sandwiches or biscuits. Through the mundane routine she gained some calm, and then she sat down on the couch with her cup and a medical journal.

* * *

 

After reading a few pages, she figured that Sherlock had been in the bathroom for a long time. The doctors had told her to take good care of him, because head traumas were unpredictable and it was possible that he blacked out or fell unconscious. She started to worry and got up from the couch. She went over to the bathroom door and listened closely. The shower was not running anymore. Helplessly she looked over to her tabby, as if asking him for some advice. Of course he did not offer any, but remained asleep, oblivious to his mistress’ distress.  Molly worried that something might have happened to her flatmate. What if he had lost consciousness and hit his head? Again. Molly knocked on the door. “Sherlock?” she called. No answer. In her mind she already pictured an unconscious Sherlock on the floor in a pool of blood. “Sherlock, are you okay?” she tried again. She was worried, but she didn’t want to intrude. It would have been embarrassing to walk into him standing there naked. Maybe he was just making fun of her and wanted her to walk in on him undressed? Would he do that? With that version of Sherlock she could not be sure. But if something had happened to him, she had to help him. She made a decision. “Sherlock, when I come in, you’ll be either unconscious or dressed!” she called out to him. Again there was no answer. Molly drew a deep breath and reached for the knob, when the door opened and a pale Sherlock almost collided with her. His hair was wet and he only wore a towel around his waist. The bandage on his head was gone. A plaster covering the laceration was the only visible reminder or his injury. His stare was vacant, as if he was not really seeing her. He did not as much as spare her a glance as he sidestepped her, Molly stumbling backwards a bit. Without a single word he went into his bedroom and closed the door.

* * *

 

An hour later Molly was still sitting in Sherlock’s chair staring at the bedroom door. She did not know what she was supposed to do. Should she go in there and talk to him? Was he in his mind palace? Did he want to be left alone? Should she sleep on the couch? She started to get very tired and realized that even if she were to sleep on the couch she needed a blanket and her jimjams. And those things were in the bedroom. Her first night with Sherlock Holmes at Baker Street was about to become a disaster. Somehow she had imagined this scenario quite differently. Not that she had imagined it… But she could not give up on the very first night, could she?

She got up and went to the bedroom door. Hesitantly she opened it. It was quite dark inside. The room was only illuminated by the streetlamps that shone through the window. Sherlock sat on the bed unmoving in a t-shirt and pyjama pants. Molly called out his name, and when he did not react, she took a tentative step towards his sitting form. “Sherlock?”   
She took another step and was surprised when she heard his deep voice say, “My wit’s diseased.”   
She remained where she was and asked, “What do you mean?”   
He kept staring straight ahead, not looking at her. “It’s confusing.”   
Slowly Molly dared to sit next to him on the bed. “What do you mean?” she repeated quietly. She wanted to touch his hand to reassure him, but was not sure if the gesture would be welcomed. It sure would not have been with the old Sherlock.   
He turned to look at her. His face seemed even paler than usual in the dimly lit room. He looked almost inhuman. His eyes stared deeply into her, searching and questioning, like they always did. When he spoke again he sounded like a lost child, “I feel… strange… and lonely… and...  The last time I felt like that was when I was dead to the world.”   
Molly could not hold back and grabbed his hand. She had a feeling amnesia Sherlock would appreciate the gesture. And she was right, because he grabbed it tight, as if she was some kind of lifeline. Molly tried her best to assure him, “You are not alone, Sherlock.” A faint smile graced his features as he stroke her cheek lovingly. A human gesture of comfort that wouldn’t normally be in his repertoire. “I know, I have you,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. Molly was so startled by this turn of events that she had not even time to process what was happening. She reacted instinctively and kissed him back. It was a gentle kiss, almost hesitant that didn’t last long, because Sherlock pulled back slowly. He tucked a strand of hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear and then leaned back onto the bed. He did not let go of her hand and pulled her with him.   
The petite pathologist followed without protest, too confused and shocked by what had just happened. With one hand Sherlock pulled back the covers and waited for Molly to lie down next to him, and then he pulled them over the both of them.   
And though Molly Hooper would not have thought it was possible to go to sleep holding hands with a high functioning sociopath, that’s exactly what she did. 


	11. Engaged to a Certain Lifestyle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again my love goes out to my beta Pipsis. 
> 
> Let’s play house with Sherlock Holmes, shall we?

** 11\. Engaged to a Certain Lifestyle  **

“No word matters. But man forgets reality and remembers words.” ― Roger Zelazny, _Lord of Light_

 

When Molly awoke on the next morning, she was confused at first. The sheets did not smell like hers and she felt something solid next to her. Something that was neither fluffy enough to be her teddy bear, nor furry enough to be Toby. Then she realized that an arm was draped over her middle. The memories came flooding back to her, and she had a hard time remaining clam. Her first instinct was to jump out of bed, but that would have woken the sleeping consulting detective that was holding her. Carefully she wriggled out of his embrace without waking him and then tiptoed out of the bedroom. In the bathroom, she leant heavy against the locked door and drew her hands over her face. She looked down at her rumpled clothes – she had fallen asleep before changing into her pyjamas – and now that she thought about it, she was glad she had. It probably would have felt even weirder waking up in the arms of Sherlock Holmes with only a thin layer of clothes separating them. She decided that the first thing to do was having a long shower and then find a way of coping with the sleeping arrangements.

In the end, Molly did not really find a way to cope with the situation, but rather to escape it. She changed her schedule, so that she did a few nightshifts in a row, in order to not have to sleep at Baker Street. She knew it was a coward’s way out, and she knew that it could not go on forever. She could not only work the nightshifts and Sherlock would become suspicious sooner or later. 

On the one hand living with Sherlock Holmes was exactly like she had always thought it would be and on the other hand it was totally different from what she had expected. Sherlock Holmes was a man who did everything a one hundred per cent. This also applied when inventing a back-story for a case and with it the persona of William Holmes. He had seemed to have decided that William Holmes was a nice and caring man. Sherlock had constructed himself a new life based on real and invented facts. The problem for his friends was that they did not know what real facts he had used and what invented he had added. So they had to learn to find a way between subtly questioning him what he believed to be true and not giving him the feeling that something was wrong. As one can imagine it was like walking on egg shells. His friends had an agreement to always keep each other up to date what they had told Sherlock and what they had found out he did not know- so that they were all on the same page. And although they knew it was necessary, they felt bad about it. They felt like they were betraying his trust and like there was a conspiracy going on. They had begun to make a list with what they knew Sherlock thought to be true. For instance, he seemed to have deleted Tom and Janine. He was under the impression that he and Molly had attended the Watson wedding together (they had even danced), the word meat-dagger (if it even was an existing term) had never been uttered and Sherlock had never flirted with anyone else but his fiancée (“Which bridesmaid?”). How Sherlock thought they had gained entrance to Magnussen’s office, they had not found out yet.

The part about living with Sherlock that was like Molly had thought was his violin playing, him commenting on the TV and spoiling every mystery, his experiments in the kitchen and of course that he thought the fridge filled itself with food (if there was space for food, because it was crammed with experiments). What was totally different from what Molly had expected was how oddly domestic it was – almost normal. They shared take away food (Molly was not the best cook), Molly read a book or a journal while Sherlock played the violin, and even the consulting detective and her cat got along. Sherlock 2.0 was still not a cat’s person, but the two seemed to have an agreement. Sherlock called his parents once a week (which they found very disturbing in the beginning) and his brother had complained to John that Sherlock actually had asked him if he wanted to meet for tea the other day. John had still been smiling when he had told Molly about it. She figured that Mycroft’s expression must’ve been quite hilarious when his brother had asked him. All in all Sherlock was now (mostly) friendly and nice. Especially towards Molly he was affectionate and always initiating physical contact when she was near; he would hold her hand, brush his fingers against her arm when he passed her, or put his hand on the small of her back when guiding her out a door. It was disconcerting to say the least. Of course Molly tried her best not to give in to his advances, but at the same time to act as normal as possible. At least she did not have to worry about Sherlock calling her honey or darling. She hoped... She had managed to remain collected without being dismissive most of the time (at least she hoped so), but she had known from day one that she could not keep it up forever. Her resolve would crumble a bit day by day – sometimes without her realizing.

* * *

 

Tonight was the night. Not THE night, of course, but the first night she would have to spend at Baker Street since she had moved in. Her row of nightshifts was over (and there would not be one in at least a week) and now she did not have an excuse for not sharing a bed with her fiancé. Thus Molly was nervous when she entered 221B and found the aforementioned man sitting in his chair reading a paper. He looked up at her and asked, “How was your day?”   
Molly stopped dead in her tracks and was confused, “Pardon?”   
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and regarded her over the rim of the paper. “I asked how your day was.”   
“Why?” she asked. The pathologist was baffled. She still had problems with accepting that the new Sherlock did small talk and knew about social niceties. Never before had he bothered to ask her how her day had been.   
Now Sherlock was confused too. “What do you mean, why?”   
Molly realized her mistake. This was one of those moments when she wanted to explain to him that he was not himself, because he would never ask her a question he regarded as dull. But she could not. “I just...,” she started unsure, “... never mind. I had a good day. Mostly lab work. What about you?”   
Drawing attention from herself towards him had worked in the past and she hoped that it still did. Although he gave her a look that clearly transported that he found her behaviour peculiar, he lowered the newspaper onto the table and answered, “I may have found a clue in the Rucastle case. John and I will do a stakeout tonight.”   
She looked at him surprised, and he interpreted it the wrong way. “I know this is more or less our first night at home together after... the incident, and I am sure you have imagined it differently, but we’ll have to go there tonight.” He made a small pause and gave her an apologetic look. “I hope that’s okay?”   
Molly almost wanted to laugh. Yes, she had imagined tonight differently; mainly her trying desperately to find a way to keep her distance without giving the impression that she was refusing him, but this was way better. She felt a weight taken off her shoulder when she walked over to him to reassure her fiancé, “Of course it’s fine. I am glad you’ve found a new lead. Where are you going?”   
Sherlock looked positively excited in the prospect of an investigation. Molly could not help but think that this was one of the occasions where he was just like his old self. “You know I did some research on Miss Hunter,” he began.   
Molly knew very well. It was what had occupied him most of the time since he had been home from the hospital. His injury had only spurred him on to find out why someone had tried to keep him from investigating further. “Miss Hunter got her job at the Rucastle’s through an agency called _Westaway’s_. I could not really find out anything useful about them on the internet, apart from the fact that the owner is a certain Miss Stoper. My network tells me that she has some ties to the Australian ambassador and some of her ‘activities’ are not of the legal kind. The agency and her flat are in the same building at Montague Place, so John and I will have a look at it tonight.”   
Molly nodded in understanding. “Sounds like a plan.”   
Sherlock gave her a proud smile and then his look settled on her lips. Molly knew what he was thinking and in order to prevent it she reached for the paper on the table and asked, “What were you reading when I came in?”   
Of course Sherlock knew what she was doing, but decided to ignore it. “Nothing, I just...” He tried to snatch the paper out of her hand, but Molly was faster and held it out of his reach. She scanned the page. “Sherlock, this is an old paper.”   
He did not say anything, so Molly went on, “Is it case-related?”   
When he did not answer her, she turned to look at him. He was avoiding her gaze and seemed to find his hands on his lap absolutely fascinating. “Sherlock?” Since she had been living with him, she had come to learn that he did that sometimes – he wore a look of... melancholy... on his face and tried to stay as far away from her as he could. When it had happened for the first time, she had thought that he was remembering, but she had come to understand that those were moments when he was confused about something. And not even this version of Sherlock Holmes liked to be confused. She lowered the paper and reached for his arm. He flinched at her touch and she pulled her hand back. “There are moments when it feels almost surreal that we are engaged,” he told her in a whisper, sounding ashamed.   
Molly had to keep herself from saying something like, “Do tell! You’re not the only one who feels that way.” Instead she swallowed hard, not knowing what to reply. Luckily Sherlock did not expect her to say something and spoke up again, “So I had to make sure it was real.” He turned and pointed a finger on the left side of the right page of the newspaper. Molly looked carefully and while reading, the words in front of her eyes started to blur.

_Forthcoming Marriages Mister W.S.S. Holmes and Miss M.E. Hooper._  
The engagement is announced between W.S.S.Holmes, son of Sigur Holmes and M.E. Hooper, daughter of Elizabeth Hooper.   
  


So it was case related (although he did not know it was). Sherlock had put a fake engagement announcement into the paper to make it more credible. Molly remembered Mrs Rucastle telling her she had read about their engagement in the paper and Molly had snickered at that. Now as it turned out the lady had been right. She was officially engaged to Sherlock Holmes. It was weird that neither the ring on her finger nor Sherlock calling her his fiancée had made it feel so real like a few letters in a newspaper did.   
With a heavy heart she sat down on the armrest of John’s chair (Toby would not budge from his place). Sherlock had had doubts if their engagement was real and now all his doubts were allayed because of an announcement in a newspaper. It was true, the written word had a power of its own and right now Molly despised it.   
Sherlock regarded Molly from his place in his chair. She knew he was trying to deduce what she was thinking and why her reaction to reading the announcement was probably totally different from what he had expected. The typical wrinkle when he thought hard about something formed between his eyebrows while he seemed to contemplate what to say or do next. Molly could not help him, because she felt way too clueless herself at the moment.   
After a few moments of silence Sherlock had decided that going on as if his fiancée did not look as shell-shocked as she did was the best way to handle the situation and he informed her, “I was also looking for the wedding invitation, but couldn’t find it. I called Mary and she said she’d give it to John to take with him.”   
That information brought Molly out of her stupor, and she inwardly thanked Mary’s foresight. “I see,” was all she could say when she got up from the chair, left the fateful paper on the table and went over to the kitchen to make some tea. She needed something to busy herself with, something to put some distance between herself and her fake fiancé in order to get back on track. She would have time to process everything later when he would be at _Westaway’s._ She felt Sherlock’s eyes on her, but chose to ignore it.

While putting the kettle on, she saw something on the kitchen table that had not been there before. She reached to pick it up. It was a file that had written _P.M., CB, St. Andrew’s, Victoria_ written on it. And there was a red stamp on it that said _Top Secret_. Molly snorted. Wasn’t it counterproductive to write _Top Secret_ on a file if you didn’t want people to get curious about its contents? Sherlock had watched her from his chair and now got up to join her in the kitchen. “John gave it to me. A present from Mycroft.” He indicated towards the file.   
Molly laid it back onto the table. “He said it might be an exercise,” Sherlock said with abhorrence. “So I guess you are not interested?”   
He smiled at her mischievously. “You guess correctly. Everything that has _Top Secret_ written all over it repels me automatically. And I don’t think I am in need of exercise, do you?”   
With that he winked and stepped a little closer to her so that she was trapped between him and the kitchen counter. She made a mental note to be more aware in the future to prevent such situations, but for the moment she was stuck (and had to agree that judging from what she felt, he was indeed not in need of exercise). Sherlock laid his hands on her shoulders, leaned down and Molly prepared herself inwardly for the inevitable, when she was saved by John’s voice, “Sherlock?”   
The man in question sighed in frustration, while the woman in front of him did the same, but for a different reason all together. Sherlock gave her a light kiss in the cheek, released his hold on her and stepped back.   
His best friend rounded the corner and took in the scene before him. Given by Molly’s blush, shallow breathing and her wide eyes it was sufficient to be the blogger of the world’s only consulting detective and not the man himself in order to deduce what was going on. He gave the woman an apologetic look and then hastened to distract his best friend. He spied the file Mycroft had given him on the kitchen table and seized the opportunity, “Did you have a look at it?” He gestured towards the paper.   
Sherlock rounded the kitchen table. “No.” John crossed his arms. “Mycroft said it was a delicate matter.“   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied in a bored tone, “With Mycroft everything is.“   
John shook his head and sighed.   
In the meantime Molly took the kettle from the stove. “Tea, John?” She asked.   
It did not escape the doctor’s notice that her hands were slightly shaking. Before John could accept or decline her offer, Sherlock referred once more to the file Mycroft had given him, “I think he tries to make fun of me. It’s a favour for an old colleague of his. A lost daddy case. He knows perfectly well I don’t do such cases. They are boring. He seems to have hoped I’ve forgotten that.” He shook his head and went into his bedroom.   
John stared after him. “Where is he going?”   
Molly shrugged and poured some tea – now for John and herself, since Sherlock did not seem interested in a hot beverage at the moment. “I don’t know. Probably change into something more suitable for a stakeout.”   
Molly went to the fridge to get some milk. Again she had to look hard to find what she was looking for, because there were a (human) liver, some fingers and a (human) kidney where the dairy product was supposed to be. She sighed deeply.   
“Just experiments and no food?” John piped in behind her. He well remembered the toxic waste damp that was supposed to be fridge.   
Molly finally found the milk and closed the fridge again. “Yeah. I’ve told him before that he can keep his stuff in there, but we need separate drawers for food and experiments.”   
John shook his head (remembering similar conversations when he had lived here) and followed Molly to the sitting room where they both got comfortable and took a sip of their tea. Then John cleared his throat, put his cup down and asked in a hushed voice, “So, how is he doing? Any new developments?”   
Molly put her cup down as well and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He’s... well you know...” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.   
John nodded in silence. He knew how she felt. It was hard to find words for the change in their friend. “Weird” was probably the best one to describe it. Although it still did not cover all aspects of Sherlock’s behaviour by far. John had a hard time trying to act as if nothing was out the ordinary, but he did not even dare to imagine how Molly must have felt. She was the one sharing a flat and a bed with him. And from the way she had looked when he had caught them in the kitchen, she was everything but comfortable with the situation. Which was understandable given the circumstances. He wanted to ask her about it, but he did not dare to. How should he approach a subject as delicate as this? “Molly, tell me, how are you able to make Sherlock stay on his side of the bed?” Probably a bit not good...   
John was brought out of his musing by the pathologist taking up the previous question, “It’s like some doors in his mind palace are suddenly closed and others that have been padlocked before are suddenly wide ajar.”   
John nodded. He figured that was a good way to describe Sherlock’s state of mind.   
“He even quoted _Hamlet_ the other day,” Molly added.   
John’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Last time I asked if he liked _Hamlet_ , he told me he was not very fond of the Danish cuisine.”   
Both had to laugh at that.   
And then the bedroom door opened and Sherlock stepped out, dressed all in black. The two people in the sitting room rose to stand.   
“So I guess you’ll have a sleepless night ahead of you,” Molly joked.   
John waved it off, “I have a baby at home, I’m used to lack of sleep.”   
“Now, come on John. We have to find out what’s going on at _Westaway’s_. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”   
Molly gave John a look that said, “See, what did I tell you?” while the blogger shook his head in disbelief.   
“Sherlock, what did I tell you about human body parts in the fridge?” Molly had to mention it, before he went away.   
The consulting detective had the decency to look sheepish – something which his former self would have never done. “Not to put them into the same drawers as the food?” he suggested.   
Molly only nodded. She did not show her surprise. She was sure he had not listened to her when she had told him. Again.   
Her flatmate scratched his head.  “Sorry.” John raised an eyebrow at the excuse and gave Molly an approving look. It seemed like she had managed to tame Sherlock Holmes. A bit.   
Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from the hanger, went over to Molly and gave her a quick peck on the lips and then rushed out of 221B and down the steps. John nodded at Molly while thinking that she looked surprisingly unshaken by Sherlock’s – albeit rushed – display of affection and then left to follow his best friend, who was still as excited about a good mystery as he had been before he had become a man with profound knowledge of pop culture and literature.

When Molly settled back into the chair with her tea in hand, she realized that John had not brought the wedding invitation with him. Or probably he had, but would show it to Sherlock during the stakeout. Either way, she was glad she had not seen it. She was positive that seeing her engagement announcement in black letters had been enough for one day. It did not need to be topped with a wedding invitation. Feeling restless, she contemplated what to do. She was not in the mood for a book or a journal. She thought about calling Meena and going out for a drink, but she dismissed it. Leaving the flat tonight did not sound appealing. Just as she had decided to take a shower, before making a decision what to do with her free evening, the file on the kitchen table caught her eye. She knew she probably shouldn’t, because it was _Top Secret,_ but she could not help it. She went over and opened the file. There was a picture of a man in his thirties with short brown hair. He looked earnest, but his eyes spoke of a friendly nature. He was titled as P.M. The picture was followed by facts about him: his weight, height, birth place and date.... Molly found it alarming what the Government seemed to know about him. Maybe they were closer to total surveillance than she had always thought. She turned the page. It seemed that P.M. was looking for his biological father. Even for Molly this case seemed too ordinary for Sherlock. Not that she did not feel sorry for this poor P.M., but why had Mycroft set him up on this case? Sherlock had said that is was a favour for an old colleague of Mycroft. As far as she could see this could be the only reason why Mycroft would bother his little brother with something like this. Molly closed the file, laid it back onto the kitchen table and remembered that she had wanted to take a relaxing shower. Obviously Sherlock’s amnesia was contagious.

* * *

 

 

The dipping of the mattress was what made Molly wake up. She tried to orient herself. It was dark in the bedroom.   
“Sorry, it’s just me, go back to sleep,” a baritone voice beside her whispered.   
This time she knew from the beginning that it was neither Toby nor her teddy bear lying next to her in the bed. Molly felt his hand reach for her under the sheets and pull her backwards towards his form. She stiffened at first but then told herself to relax. She did not turn around to face him however when she asked in a voice filled with sleep, “You’re back already? I thought it would take the whole night.”   
Sherlock seemed to get comfortable behind her and drew lazy circles on her abdomen. Now Molly knew that she would have a hard time falling asleep again.   
“I’ve gained all the information I needed. There was no need to stay any longer. Are you disappointed?“   
“No.” She did not know if it was a lie or not.   
She felt more than heard Sherlock chuckle behind her, “John hoped the stakeout would take longer so he could get some sleep. I don’t think he gets much sleep at home.”   
Molly had to smile at that. It had not escaped her attention that John had looked tired today.   
The pathologist felt Sherlock’s breath grace her neck and his fingers stopped their movement on her belly. Silence enfolded them and Molly thought he had fallen asleep and was busy willing herself to the land of dreams herself, when he spoke up again, “John brought me the wedding invitation.”   
There was a pause in which Molly involuntarily held her breath. “I remember it differently, but obviously...” his voice drifted off. Again he sounded uncertain, so Molly could not help but reach for his arm that was snaked around her under the sheets.   
“What?” she asked in a low voice, knowing instinctively there was something that was bothering him.   
He opened his mouth, but then closed it again, as if he was not sure what he wanted to say or how. It was a rare occurrence that Mr Punchline was at a loss of words, but with the new Sherlock Molly found that it happened on a more or less regular basis, at least when they were alone.   
Finally, he seemed to give up trying to find the right words for what was going on his muddled mind. He tightened his hold on her and whispered, “It doesn’t matter, as long as we get married.”


	12. Wanted: Sherlock Holmes' Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to A-M for her suggestions for the to-do-wedding-list, although I could not really include them. But I understand that due to A Game of Thrones we’re all a bit… traumatized.   
> Biscotto Corinna had some suggestions as well – thank you! Hers were by far not so bloody. 
> 
> And last but not least my thanks to Pipsis for being a great beta.

** 12\. Wanted: Sherlock Holmes’ Memories **

“We’re constantly changing facts, rewriting history to make things easier, to make them fit in with our preferred version of events. We do it automatically. We invent memories. Without thinking. If we tell ourselves something happened often enough we start to believe it, and then we can actually remember it.” ― S.J. Watson, _Before I Go To Sleep_

 

Needless to say that while Sherlock Holmes slept well while holding his fiancée in his arms, sleep eluded aforementioned woman. It had not been so much the fact of being held in the arms of the man she loved, why she would not enter the land of dreams (which would have been enough of a reason under different circumstances), but what he had said before he gone to sleep. It had brought to her attention – once again – that the situation was of a more delicate matter than she had initially thought. Yet it had made her more determined than ever to not give up. She had managed to keep the secret of Sherlock’s fall for two years. Granted, she hoped that this would not take so long, but she had proved to the world – and to herself – that she was capable of way more than most people gave her credit for. So while the man beside her had shifted in his sleep – but never let her go – she had made a plan how to deal with her fiancé and the inevitable planning of a wedding that could not be.

For the following day Sherlock had asked the Watsons (yes, the new Sherlock had “asked” and not “told” them) to meet him and his fiancée in a café to talk about the planning of the wedding. As you can imagine Molly dreaded the meeting, and that was why she had told Sherlock that she would meet with Mary a bit earlier so they could have a “chat between women.” The consulting detective had made a face and had been glad that it was not expected from him to listen to those conversations. Henceforth it had been agreed that the women would meet beforehand and the men would join them later.

* * *

 

As usual Molly was the first to be at the café, because Mary was late. When she finally arrived she blamed it on the baby. Molly waved it off and smiled inwardly, having expected just that. When they both had some coffee and a scone in front of them on the table, Mary asked bluntly, “So, how is living with amnesia Sherlock?”   
Molly sighed deeply and took a sip of her coffee, before she answered, “It’s... I don’t know... weird is probably the best term to describe it. Suddenly he knows all kinds of trivial stuff, like who Prince William is, or that _Hamlet_ is a play and not a Danish dish.”  
“Shakespeare would appreciate it,” Mary interjected.   
Molly nodded and after a small pause went on, “Normal people are supposed to know things like that, but not Sherlock!” Molly drew a frustrated hand over her face. “Do you know what I mean?”   
Mary reached across the table and took her hand. “Oh Molly, I totally understand. I know it is hard for John, but you actually have to live with him, share his flat and...” Mary stopped in the middle of her sentence, realizing what she had been about to say.   
Molly gave her a half smile. “You mean I have to share his bed.”   
The blonde nodded. There was silence for a moment when both took a bite of their scones and were lost in their own thoughts to the soundtrack of other people talking and coffee being brewed.   
“We didn’t have sex so far,” Molly suddenly blurted out.   
Mary could not help but raise an eyebrow and repeated, “So far?”   
Again the brunette sighed. “I know he expects me to sleep with him. I mean, we are engaged and it’s not 1900 anymore, and I don’t deny that I ...,” she hesitated not really knowing how she should phrase it.   
“Want him?” Mary supplied. Molly bushed and nodded, “... but it would be wrong. He is not himself. I feel like I’d take advantage of him, given his current state.”   
Mary was well aware that this was a delicate matter and a muddled situation, but she could not help but giggle a bit. “Would you have ever thought to be in the situation where you could take advantage of Sherlock Holmes?”   
Molly smiled over the rim of her cup. “The irony is not lost on me.”   
Both took a sip of coffee. “But from the way you are talking I figure you already have a plan how to... prevent intimacy with your fake-fiancé?”   
“I’m well aware that I will have to act affectionate towards him...”   
“Which won’t be a problem,” Mary interjected with a knowing smile and winked.   
Molly chose to ignore her, “... and that he will kiss me and hold me, but I think I know how I can prevent that it’ll go any further than that.”   
Mary gave her a long evaluating stare and Molly thought that sometimes Sherlock and his best friend’s wife were not so different after all. Although Mary had been joking with Molly about her new living arrangements, she knew very well that it was not easy for the pathologist. She was still in love with Sherlock Holmes and from what her husband had told her, she had been infatuated with him for years. Mary had always had mixed feeling about that. On the one hand she felt sorry for Molly, because she had seen how dismissive and cruel Sherlock could be towards her, on the other hand she admired Molly a bit for her devotion and her belief in Sherlock Holmes, for her trust in his heart. Mary only hoped that the current situation would not break Molly Hooper. Mary was not sure if Molly could separate her real feelings for the consulting detective from the ones she was expected to show while playing his fiancée. Mary doubted it and that made her anxious. What would happen when (if?) Sherlock’s memories would return and he would go back to being his old self? Could Molly deal with it? Could Sherlock?

Molly started to feel uneasy under Mary’s scrutinizing gaze and decided to change the subject. She laid the wedding invitation on the table that Sherlock had shown her and said, “I guess you should fill me in, before the others come. I can’t believe you already had a wedding invitation ready. How did you know that we would need one?” Mary only shrugged and regarded the invitation. It was a classic design – black writing on pearl white paper.

_Mister William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Miss Molly Elizabeth Hooper_  
request the pleasure of your company at their marriage   
at St. Mary’s Church, Sutton Mallet on Saturday 16th August at 12 o’clock.   
Followed by reception at The Belvedere   
Off Abbotsbury Road In Holland Park   
London, W8 6LU

“I knew that Sherlock would ask about it sooner or later,” Mary said.   
Molly pointed at the name of the place where the wedding should take place. “I know this is the same church where you married, but I did not know the other venue, so I looked it up and...” Molly shook her head.   
Mary cocked her head to the side. “You don’t like it?” She was surprised. The blonde had been sure that Molly would love the place.   
“No, it’s gorgeous!” Molly hastened to set it right. “It’s just... I hope you did not actually book that venue, did you? Because I can’t afford it.”   
Mary smiled, “Oh Molly, you only marry once.”   
“That’s not funny, Mary!” In spite of herself Molly smiled too.   
Mary turned serious again, “I did book it, because imagine Sherlock calling them or going there to organize something for the reception and it turns out there’s no reservation for “Holmes”? I only had to pay a small deposit. The rest is to be paid afterwards. But since it won’t come to that and we are able to cancel without additional payment until one month prior to the date, we’ll be fine.”   
“I don’t want you to pay the deposit!”   
Mary assured her, “It’s already done. Please don’t worry about it. See it as us supporting you. We are all in this together.”   
Molly was immensely grateful that she had friends like that. She laid a hand on Mary’s. “Thank you.”   
“You’re welcome.” The blonde gave her a warm smile and then fished a piece of paper out of her bag. “This is the guest list,” Mary explained.   
Molly had a look at who was presumably invited. There were of course the obvious ones like Mycroft, Lestrade and Mike Stamford, but also not so obvious ones like Molly’s aunt or Sherlock’s cousins and other distant relatives of whose existence Molly did not even known. She did not dare to ask where Mary had gotten this information. “Janine and The Woman are on the “Special Guest”-list,” Mary joked.   
“I was thinking about asking Janine to be my maid-of-honour,” Molly retorted.   
Mary acted as if she actually contemplated it and then said, “Well, he has forgotten about her, hasn’t he? So I don’t see why not.”   
They shared a laugh and then Molly became serious again. “I know we’ve never really talked about it, and somehow we all just assumed it, but... Is it okay for you to be my maid-of-honour?”   
Mary found it endearing that her friend sounded so uncertain. “Of course, it is okay,” she reassured her. “It is more than okay! Although it is all fake, I feel honoured to be your maid-of-honour. One can say, I feel fake-honoured.”   
They laughed again and Molly realized that laughing and joking about the absurdity of the situation made it easier to bare. A lot easier.   
Mary went on to fill her in, “I have contacted all the people I know from the guest list and Mycroft took care of the Holmes family. You should talk to your relatives. And the rest... I am sure Sherlock has a plan.”   
As if on cue the door to the café opened and in walked John and aforementioned man. The women rose to greet them (Sherlock kissed Molly on the cheek) and then all sat down – the men next to their respective woman. “I see you’ve gone through the guest list,” Sherlock stated and pulled the piece of paper that had been lying on the table – next to the invitation – towards him. He scanned the page. He squinted and pointed towards one name. “All people are listed by their full names, why did you write “Lestrade”? Don’t you know that his first name is Greg?”   
For a second all three stared at him. John cleared his throat but was saved by the waitress who took the orders of the two men. Sherlock then asked some questions about his goddaughter (it was still odd for all of them witnessing Sherlock while making small talk) and after the beverages (tea for John and coffee for his best friend) had arrived, Sherlock pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and presented a To-do-list. The other three leaned forward and read, while Sherlock spoke, “Since I am a bit... confused... at the moment, I would like an update on the wedding plans. I’d like to tick off what has already been organized, what not and who will take care of what.”   
All nodded, but somehow had a bad feeling about this. Sherlock started to read the list out loud, “Church (incl. Priest), registrar, venue, invitations, catering, menu, cake, limousine, flowers, music, serviettes, suit, dress, bridesmaid’s dresses, best man speech, table decoration, sticker, wedding rings, appointment at hair dresser, place cards, photographer (Preferably not the one from John’s wedding, and who he might be unavailable due to a prison sentence.), stag night (I am not sure, if I want one...), hen night, bridal shower.”

After Sherlock was finished his friends fell silent. Suddenly all realized that planning a wedding that would never take place was probably even more work than planning a real one.   
John cleared his throat and was the first to speak, “I guess we can cross out the first four items. We have a church, a registrar, a venue and invitations.”   
Apart from Sherlock everyone was well aware that no one had ever talked to a registrar, and John made a mental note to talk with Mycroft about it.   
Sherlock crossed out the first four items and then looked at his friends incredulously. “That’s all? We’ve not taken care of any of the other things so far?”   
Mary tried to calm him down, “Sherlock, we still got enough time.”   
He gave her a look. “Says the woman who freaked out because in her opinion the birds on the wedding invitation pointed in the wrong direction.”   
Mary crossed her arms. Her husband tried to intervene. “Guys, let’s not get all worked up. As Mary has said, we still have enough time. I think it’s just that we have never really talked about who was responsible for what.”   
Sherlock shook his head, “I’d say it’s rather obvious. Mary does the maid-of-honour stuff and you do the best man stuff.”   
Sherlock waved at John who looked flummoxed all of a sudden. “I am you best man?” He could not help bust ask in disbelief.   
The other three found themselves speechless. Only John’s wife reacted by kicking his shin under the table. That brought him back to reality and he tried to cover up his mistake, “I mean, I know that I am you best man. It’s just that you have never asked me... officially... so I was not sure.” John was well aware that he was rambling and the second kick from his wife made him shut up.   
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and regarded his best friend. “I did not know that there was an official way to ask such a thing of you. I was under the impression that it was clear that you being my best friend meant you would be my best man.”   
John tried to play it down, “I don’t think there’s an official way. And...,” he hesitated a bit and glanced at Molly before he went on, “... and I feel honoured to be your best man.” The two man looked at each other and one could see the deep understanding and friendship they shared for each other, even if none of them would voice it out loud.   
Mary clapped her hands together. “Well then, Sherlock, tell us what to do.”

In the end Sherlock’s friends had tried to talk him out of involving himself in stuff like flower arrangements (“I don’t care about the flowers, as long as it’s not lily of the valley. That’s so trite.”) and table decoration. They wanted to leave him out of as much as possible. Not arranging it and giving him the impression that everything was arranged would be much easier that way. With some stuff on the list this plan worked well (flowers, sticker, serviettes), with others not (cake, music). Sherlock made them promise to give him a weekly update on their tasks and to keep him informed of any changes in plan or when a problem was to arise (“Because we all know John is rubbish at organizing weddings.”). The new Sherlock was as systematic as the old one. 

* * *

 

When the friends parted and the pairs went back to their respective homes, it was already quite late. As soon as Molly and Sherlock entered 221B he informed her that he would go straight to bed. The pathologist found that a bit peculiar, because Sherlock never slept much and never went to bed early. But she had decided some time ago that it was better not to question his behaviour too much. So she kissed him goodnight (well, he kissed her and she let it happen) and then settled onto the couch with Toby to read.

She stayed up extra-long and took her time in the bathroom and hoped that her fiancé would have fallen asleep by now.   
At first she thought she was lucky, but as soon as she had made herself comfortable on her side of the bed, she was pulled against Sherlock’s chest. “I was afraid you would never show up,” he said, his voice as dark as the darkness surrounding them.   
Molly went stiff while he began to kiss her neck. His arm snaked around her and pressed her closer against him. With shock she realized that he was not wearing a shirt. She heard her blood rush in her ears, and she was positive Sherlock could feel her rapid pulse on her neck where he was kissing her. She had hoped to postpone this situation. She had hoped it would never come to this. Well, she had hoped it was would come to this one day, but definitely not like that. Not with a man who had no recollection of who he really was. His mind had been stripped clean of his identity, because the old Sherlock would have never acted the way he did now. At least not with her, she thought. She knew what she needed to do, but it was everything but easy. He made her turn around in his arms and let his hands travel over her arms, leaving goose bumps in their wake, up to her face. He caressed her cheek, and it took everything she had not to lean into his touch. It would have been so easy to give in and live out her fantasy. He brushed her hair out of her face. Her eyes were closed, because she did not dare to look into his. She wanted to cry, because this felt like someone was playing an evil trick on her – a nightmare in the disguise of a dream come true. Her breathing was shallow, quivering intakes of air combining in the space between them. “Molly?” With the way he said her name it took every fibre of her being to conjure up enough will power to not forget what she needed to do. She needed to stop this. If she would let this go any further she would hate herself afterwards, and he would come to hate her the moment he would get his memories back.   
“Molly, look at me,” he ordered softly, and when she finally obeyed and looked into his eyes in the dimly lit room, she saw something new in them that she didn’t recognize. Something that looked very dangerous.   
That made her finally snap out of her sensory overload and she blurted out, “We can’t have sex.” The words fell oddly on the dusty stillness of the room.   
Sherlock pulled back a bit and let go of her, his face crestfallen.   
Molly swallowed hard and moved backwards to put some distance between them. Slowly she sat up against the headboard and pulled the sheet up to her chest. Somehow she felt naked, although she was still fully dressed. He was looking at her, waiting for an explanation while sitting up himself. “Sherlock, I am sorry, but we can’t have sex.”   
He cleared his throat. “You’ve already said that.” He did not need to add, “But I’d like to know why.” The way he said it implied it.   
So Molly answered his unspoken question, “We agreed not to have sex before the wedding.”   
He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again. He stared at her, and Molly did her best not to look away. She knew she needed stand her ground and not back up. Otherwise he would know she was lying.   
He blinked three times. “Are you sure?”   
Molly knew it was foul play and more than a bit not good, but she tried to sound as hurt as possible when she accused him, “You think I’m lying?”   
Sherlock held up a hand. “No! I...” he faltered and Molly saw a look of confusion cross his face and ached for him. “I just can’t remember that we agreed on that.” He drew a hand through his curls and then leaned his head back against the headboard, obviously searching his mind palace for the room where he had stored that piece of information, but not being able to find it.   
“But we did,” Molly lied and was shocked how sincere she sounded even to her own ears. “We agreed that we wanted it to be special and so we agreed to wait.”   
He turned his head slowly to look at her and gave her a sad smile. “That sounds like something you would want.” He reached for her and pulled her into an embrace. She followed willingly, needing some comfort, even if she felt like she didn’t deserve it, especially not from him. “So, it’s okay?” she asked in a small voice, staring at his chest.   
“Of course. I respect your wish. And if you say we’ve already agreed on it... Who am I to argue?” She bit her lip in order to keep herself from crying and snuggled a bit closer to him. She was glad he could not see her face. He kissed the top of her head and said, “So just to clarify it once and for all: I know you would not lie to me. I trust you completely.”   
Molly pressed her eyes shut at Sherlock’s words. Never before had she loathed herself so much as in this moment. _But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue._

* * *

 

**A/N: I died a thousand deaths while writing the last bit of this chapter, because Sherlock felt so OOC. I know he should be, since he IS OOC. Yet still it felt weird. I guess Molly’s not the only one who needs some time to get used to amnesia Sherlock ;-)  **

**Well, I’m off to London – hope to see some of you at the Convention!**


	13. Forgetting Sarah Marshall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for being do awesome! 
> 
> I have never intended for this story to become so long. But I guess trying to weave an engagement plot into a mystery plot and then topping it with an amnesia plot takes its toll ;-)  
> Ask Pipsis about it, because she has to proofread it. So as always I am very grateful for her help. 
> 
> Finally back onto the case...

**13\. Forgetting Sarah Marshall**

"Right now I'm having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I've forgotten this before."  
― Steven Wright

 

"Molly told me the other day that we had agreed on not having sex before the wedding. But I can't remember ever having that conversation."  
John almost choked on his tea. Sherlock's statement had come out of the blue. Sure the blogger had noticed that his best friend had been lost in thought during their journey to Winchester, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. John had suspected the detective had thought about the case. That he had obviously been contemplating the state of his engagement was definitely out of the ordinary.

They were sitting at a table in the _Black Swan Hotel_ in Winchester and waiting for Violet Hunter. After the incident at the party the young woman had called them in the morning because she had been concerned about Sherlock's state. But after John had told her about the medical condition of the consulting detective, the governess had refused further contact. She had felt guilty and had been afraid of the consequences if the Rucastles found out she was still in contact with them. But eventually she had been brave enough to answer a call from John (mainly because she felt responsible for Sherlock's state) and after a long conversation she had agreed to meet them again –not at the mansion, but somewhere else. So here the crime solving due sat and waited for their client to arrive, but instead of talking about the case, Sherlock had opened a conversation about his relationship.

John lowered his cup of tea and contemplated his response.  
"I guess it's normal that you forgot the conversation after...," he did not say it, but made a gesture with his hand, knowing Sherlock didn't need further explaining.  
His friend drew a hand through his hair, which John knew was a sign of his frustration. "I know, but with most other things I cannot remember correctly, I can at least recall bits and pieces of it." He made a pause in which his gaze shifted from his friend towards an invisible spot on the wall behind him. He spoke as if to himself, "I would not have thought that Molly was the kind of person who wanted to wait until she was married. And I know for a fact that she is not a virgin anymore."  
"How?" John blurted out before thinking. Sherlock looked back at him.  
John shook his head vehemently and held up a hand, "No, wait. I don't want to know."

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the face of his friend, as if willing the answer to his next question to appear on his forehead. "Then why doesn't she want to have sex with me?"  
This was definitely one of those conversations John thought he would never ever have with his best friend. But then again he also never had thought that he would have to plan Sherlock's wedding. He should have listened to what his fortune cookie had read last week, "Never say never. Ever." This wisdom was definitely applicable when being best friends with the world's only consulting detective. John just hoped that the prediction in Mary's fortune cookie didn't come true as well, "Someone from your past will make a visit."  
John decided not to answer Sherlock's question. How could he? Hence he asked one of his own, "So you think maybe Molly has invented the story about the conversation you had? It was just an excuse?"  
John hoped that his best friend would not answer in the affirmative, because he was not sure how to proceed then. But John was lucky, because Sherlock assured him, "No! I trust her. I know she would not lie to me."  
John cringed inwardly when a felt a stab of guilt. He knew Sherlock trusted Molly, always had, and it was hard work to gain the trust of a high functioning sociopath – John knew from personal experience. But it only needed a little to ruin this trust forever, and not for the first time John doubted their decision to play along with Sherlock's version of reality.  
John took a sip of his tea and then prompted hesitantly, "So you want to...," again he made a gesture with his hands.  
Sherlock's eyes widened at it. "No... I mean yes, I want to have sex with her, but I respect her wish. I just have the feeling that she...," but before Sherlock could go on, Violet Hunter stepped into the room. It was not lost on John that a few men turned their heads when she entered, and when he saw the look on his best friend's face John couldn't believe it. Was Sherlock –I-am-married-to-my-work- Holmes ogling Violet Hunter? At the party it had not escaped John's attention that the governess had stared at the consulting detective in a very interested manner, but Sherlock had not so much as batted an eyelash then. So John could not help but tease his friend.  
"She's a woman men would die for," he said, throwing back the word's Sherlock had used at the party to describe the young woman.  
Sherlock's eyes snapped back to John and defended himself scandalized, "I am engaged!"  
John wore an amused expression. "And I am happily married, but that doesn't mean I've become blind to a woman's beauty."  
"She's a client, nothing more," Sherlock said gruffly and chose to keep himself busy by taking a sip of his coffee.  
"Sure, but a pretty one none the less," John retorted and then the subject of their conversation had reached their table. The man rose to greet the woman and John noticed that Sherlock tried his best to avoid eye contact with her. Her fingers fidgeted nervously, and she looked paler than when they had first met her.

After they had set down and Ms Hunter was having tea of her own, Sherlock started the conversation – or better his interrogation. He was all business, and if one did not know that Sherlock was suffering from post-traumatic amnesia due to a head injury, one would have never guessed.  
"John and I did some research on you and went to _Westaway's_."  
"The job agency?" Ms Hunter asked surprised.  
Sherlock arched his eyebrows in his typical arrogant way. "Do you know any other institution of that name that is related to the case?"  
"No," she replied in a small voice.  
Sherlock went on, "Do you have any idea why an Australian gentleman might have visited Ms Stoper late at night?"  
The governess shook her head. "No, I don't really know her. She placed me jobs, that's all. I don't know if she has a boyfriend or if he is Australian."  
"Please do keep up, Ms Hunter, it was not that kind of nightly visit. It was a more or less official appointment. The man seemed to be some kind of agent."  
"Sherlock," John cleared his throat, when he thought that his friend became a bit too rude with the young woman. Still he had to admit that he was a bit glad about it, because Sherlock behaved like he was supposed to. John was just sorry that it was at Miss Hunter's expense.

The consulting detective drew a breath and then prompted, "Ms Hunter, would you be so kind as to tell us what has happened at the Rucastle's since the party?"  
The governess nodded dutifully. "Well, as you can imagine everyone was quite beside themselves, because of the incidents during the party. Mrs Rucastle wanted to send you some flowers on the next day, but Mr Rucastle was against it. In the afternoon he asked me into the sitting room and told me that it was very important for them to have a good relationship with their employees and that was why they would sit and chat with Mr Toller in the sitting room on a regular basis and they wanted me to have the same privilege. I would spend some time with them, but the way he said it did not sound like a request, but more like an order. After that everything went back to normal – well, as what is considered normal at the Rucastles. In passing I saw Mr Toller sitting in the chair in the sitting room with Mr and Mrs Rucastle a few times and they asked me to do the same at least once a week." She made a pause as if considering if it was appropriate to add what she was about to say, "And I think Mr Toller might have started drinking."  
While the woman had told her tale, Sherlock had folded his hands under his chin in his thinking posture. "And what do you do when you sit in the sitting room?"  
Ms Hunter shrugged. "I just sit there and listen to the stories of Mr Rucastle. You would not believe how many entertaining stories he has to tell!"  
The woman smiled and John could not relate to it. To him Mr Rucastle had not seemed like the funny storyteller when they had met him.  
"Do you sit in the chair with the back to the window?" Sherlock asked her.  
"Yes I do."  
Sherlock murmured something that sounded like, "Interesting," and then studied Ms Hunter's face closely. She obviously felt uncomfortable under his intense gaze and shifted in her seat. Just as she was about to lower her eyes, because she could not stand his staring anymore, he snapped out of it and resumed questioning her, "So tell me, Ms Hunter, how many people are currently residing at the mansion?"  
The young woman took a sip of her beverage before she began to count out loud, "There are of course Mr and Mrs Rucastle, Edward (their son), Mr Toller and me."  
"Mrs Rucastle is not Mr Rucastle's first wife, if I am informed correctly." Sherlock said. It was not a question. Sherlock Holmes did his homework.  
Ms Hunter shook her head. "No, he was a widow and Mrs Rucastle is his second wife."  
There was a pause in which the governess seemed to think about something and then she spoke up again. "There is also their daughter Alice, but they are not really related."  
Sherlock scoffed, "This is nonsense. You can't be 'not really related' – either you are related or you are not."  
Ms Hunter explained, "Alice is Mr Rucastle's daughter with his first wife. But she's in Philadelphia. They say she has an aversion to her stepmother."  
"How old is she?"  
"A few years younger than me."  
Sherlock nodded while John was busy writing down everything the young woman had said.  
"And there's the dog, Carlo," Ms Hunter added to the list of inhabitants of the house. "He's an odd little creature. It's Mr Rucastle's dog, but the animal seems to hate him. He always barks at him, but never at the others." She shook her head at this oddity.  
Silence enfolded the three, in which John kept on writing and Sherlock stored the information in his mind palace.  
Ms Hunter raised her mug to drink her remaining tea, but stopped midway. "Sarah," she said suddenly, "I forgot Sarah Marshall. She's the housekeeper."

* * *

John was exhausted when he came home. They had questioned Ms Hunter a bit more, but soon Sherlock had become frustrated, because he had been under the impression that it was not leading anywhere. He had wanted to have a look at the house and garden again. But since it had already been getting dark and the young governess had been impatient to get back, John had convinced Sherlock to go to the Rucastle's another day, when having a plan what to look for exactly. Surprisingly the consulting detective had agreed (John decided that new Sherlock had his advantages) and while Ms Hunter had gone back to the mansion, the men had travelled back to London.

John had a look into the nursery to kiss his daughter who was fast asleep (for now...) and then after a shower went to join his wife in bed. He told her about the investigation. When he was finished and she had asked some questions, he told her, "I had the weirdest conversation with Sherlock today."  
Mary chuckled and snuggled closer to her husband's side, "You usually talk about headless nuns and elephants in a room. I would consider every conversation with Sherlock as weird."  
John shook his head, "I mean even weird in a Sherlock-kind-of-sense. We talked about his and Molly's sex life – or better the lack of it."  
That made his wife pause and sit up a bit to have a better look at his face.  
"This is getting out of hand, John. We may joke about it and it's nice that Sherlock is... nice... for a change, but this can't go on like this. Imagine what Molly must go through! We have to set an end to this madness. Otherwise poor Molly will lose her mind too."  
John agreed with his wife, "You're right. We need to find a solution."

They had two hours of sleep, and then the baby started to cry.

* * *

**A/N: I do like the character of Irene Adler on the show, but I've always thought that there's an over-interpretation of her character in the canon of ACD. In the original story she does what she does so she can be together with the man she loves – and that is NOT Sherlock Holmes. Yes, she's the only woman to ever beat the detective, but that's about it (from her side). I see the need for a love interest in films, but I've never understood why everyone chose Ms Adler, but no one ever thought of Violet Hunter. Holmes is actually nice to her and even says he thinks her "a quite exceptional woman". Even Watson believes that Holmes might be interested in Miss Hunter. Don't worry, this is a Sherlolly story and Ms Hunter won't get in the way. And as some of you might have realized, I turned the line about the exceptional woman on Molly in chapter 4. Yet still, I could not help a little reference to Holmes' behaviour towards Ms Hunter in the canon in this chapter**.


	14. ... but Thinking makes it so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My love goes out to my readers, reviewers followers (sounds like a cult) and favouriters (is that an existing term?), thank you! And of course to my beta Pipsis. 
> 
> Guest: Thank you! I hope you'll still feel that way at Chapter 26 ;-) 
> 
> Credit for the title goes to Mr Shakespeare (although I doubt that he would sue me).

**14\. … but Thinking makes it so**

"A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you don't find it, but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting."  
― J.M. Barrie, _The Works Of J. M. Barrie_

 

Molly had worked on the amnesia-Sherlock-list while he had been in Winchester. It had become considerably longer. Sure they still hadn't all answers to their questions, but she thought they had made progress. Facts he remembered were, for instance:

Mary shooting him (Sherlock had told Molly how grateful he was that she had been there and had helped him to stay focused. Molly had been more than a bit flummoxed by his statement. She concluded that he seemed to mix some things up a bit when remembering the incident.)

Doing drugs for the Moriarty case (including Molly slapping him, although he blocked out the statement about her ring)

Shooting Magnussen and spending 4 minutes in exile ("The four longest minutes of my life; excluding when Mycroft tried to explain the facts of life to me.")

The Woman (to Molly's disappointment)

Moriarty (although in a slightly different way and they were still in the dark about what he remembered precisely)

The Fall (it was not clear if Sherlock was under the impression that they already had been a couple then)

Lestrade's first name (Greg still couldn't believe it)

He still hated the deerstalker.

 

The items she had added to the list he did not remember was a bit shorter:

Tom (Molly had to admit she was a bit grateful for that – and of course felt bad for even thinking such a thing)

Janine (Molly was definitely grateful for that – they still did not know how they had entered Magnussen's office in Sherlock's version, though)

He did not remember that Anderson was now pro-Sherlock (this left Anderson very disappointed);

It was unclear if he remembered that he had never liked Donovan or if he had decided again not to like her. But that didn't really matter since the feeling was still mutual.

* * *

The list was a constant work in progress, and all of Sherlock's friends had their own and updated each other on a regular basis. Molly had always been fond of lists (she was a very organized person), but this one was vital for her daily life with her new fiancé. On some days it was easy for her to keep track what he knew and what he didn't and on others it was anything but. And on those days, her list helped her get by. Needless to say that Sherlock was not to find out about the existence of such a list. Therefore she always carried it with her and was careful to not let it lie about in 221B.

Apart from expanding her list and going to work, she had dusted their flat. She wanted to call it "Sherlock's flat" in her mind, but she found that more and more often she referred to 221B as "their flat" even in her own mind. Not only had she realized, with horror, that life with Sherlock Holmes had somehow become almost normal for her, but that she had become so used to wearing the engagement ring on her finger that her hand felt empty without it. She tried not to contemplate it too much and to tell herself at least once a day that it was only a prop, but she knew her subconscious refused to listen.

So while she had been busy cleaning his flat, she had opened the top drawer of a cabinet, and had found a camera phone. She had been curious, because it definitely had not been Sherlock's (his hand was practically glued to his) and why would he keep a camera phone in a cabinet? She had inspected it more closely and had tried to find a link to some case. And suddenly she had remembered what John had told her after the case with The Woman. Could it be? Was this The Phone? The one had X-rayed? But the more Molly had thought about it the more certain she had become. She could not think of another explanation. And at this realization she had felt a stab of jealousy. She had known it was ridiculous and inappropriate, but she could not help it. Sherlock's flat was free of any sentimental object, except for this one: The Woman's phone.

All of a sudden, she had felt like she had done something forbidden, like she had invaded Sherlock's privacy. As if the phone had burned her, she had put it back into the drawer and had shut it (more forcefully than had been necessary).

She had tried her best not to think about it, but it had been on her mind constantly. Some part of her wanted to talk to Sherlock about it, and another part knew she shouldn't. She had no right to. She was not really his fiancée. And for the first time the ring on her finger felt like a burden.

* * *

So when Molly Hooper entered her (temporary) flat this evening, she found her fiancé (flatmate) sitting in his armchair that he had moved in front of the window. He was in his mind palace, but not far gone. His right foot tapped impatiently. Molly put her bag and her coat away and scratched Toby behind the ears (who was lying on the couch), before she addressed the consulting detective.  
"How did it go, Sherlock?"  
He stopped the movement of his foot and shot up from the chair.  
"Data! Data! Data!" he cried impatiently, "I can't make bricks without clay."  
Molly looked at him completely calm. She was used to his tantrums by now. The consulting detective started to pace the room, drew a hand through his hair and pursed his lips with frustration. Molly had to struggle not to smile at his impatience. She passed him and went into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water.  
"I reckon that means you did not find any new clues?" she asked while filling a glass and then leaning against the kitchen counter.  
Sherlock stopped in his stride for a moment, looked at her and said annoyed, "I'm not so sure about that." He then resumed pacing again.  
Molly shook her head. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
When Sherlock didn't answer she was not surprised at all. He only filled her in if he wanted to. The pathologist drained her glass.  
"Do you think Mrs Rucastle has something to do with it?" she asked.  
Sherlock stopped again and gave her a look that clearly transported how preposterous her question was. "Mrs Rucastle is colourless in mind as well as in feature. She is far too dull to be involved in anything other than knitting."  
"That's not very nice," his fiancée chided.  
Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest. "What gave you the impression I was nice?" he snapped.

For a moment Molly stared at him. Not once had he talked to her like that since his head trauma. She was so taken aback that she did not know how to react. Was that a good sign? Was it a bad sign?

While Molly was still busy processing what had just happened, a look of horror crossed Sherlock's face. "I'm so sorry!" he said and held a hand over his mouth, as if trying to keep more harsh words from tumbling out.  
Molly shook her head, not really sure what to reply, "No, it's quite alright."  
Now Sherlock sounded absolutely scandalized, "How can you say that? It's absolutely not alright."

Molly shifted from one foot to the other. This was one of those moments when she wished she were not alone with him and had someone to ask for advice.

She stared at the empty glass that was still in her hand, as if it was a crystal ball, predicting her future and telling her how to proceed. "No, it... it... was good," she stuttered.  
The consulting detective raised his eyebrows. "I'd say it was a bit not good," he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Molly shrugged helplessly, put the useless glass onto the counter and tried to think of something that would get him to talk about the case once again. "Do you think Ms Hunter herself has anything to do with it?" she finally questioned him.  
He waved a hand. "No, she's as innocent as ..." his voice trailed off, because he did not seem to find an adequate comparison.

After a small pause he went on, "If she's somehow involved she doesn't know about it. She's so naive. She seriously believes that Mr Rucastle is a nice man, just because he tells funny stories." He shook his head, and going by the look on his face one would think he pitied the young governess.  
All at once Molly felt herself getting a bit defensive, taking his words personally, "Well, some people want to see the good in others. Is that so bad?"

He took three steps and suddenly was right in her personal space. He did that a lot now that they were engaged, and Molly had learned not to flinch (most of the time). Before, he had only done it either on purpose to be intimidating or to manipulate her, knowing this close proximity to him made her nervous. Apart from that he had stayed out of her personal space, because Sherlock Holmes had been someone who had preferred to observe people from a certain distance.

He cocked his head to the side, studying her face. "No, I never said it was. For a fact I know someone who is just like that: always seeing the good in people. And I very much appreciate that character trait in her."  
"Really?" Molly asked in a teasing voice, not knowing what had gotten into her, encouraging him.  
"Yes, otherwise she wouldn't be my fiancée," he said in a joking manner, leaned down a bit further and ran his thumb across her cheek, his look wandering from her eyes to her mouth.

Molly thought her heart had stopped beating for a moment. Suddenly she didn't feel like joking anymore. This didn't feel like joking anymore. Her eyes widened at his words. She did a step aside to put some distance between them; not sure if she was glad or sorry he hadn't kissed her. And that confused her even more. Flirting was okay – she guessed – but this seemed to head into more dangerous waters.

She ignored the look of rejection on his face (she had become quite good at that) and walked over to his chair, gesturing at it, "Why did you move your armchair? And why with the back to the window? I would feel like someone was watching me from behind…" she rambled in an attempt to ease the awkwardness of the situation.  
But instead of telling her to shut up or answering her questions, his posture went totally stiff and a broad smile formed on his face.  
"Molly, you are brilliant!" he said with triumph in his voice and grabbed his phone from the coffee table and started to type furiously.

The pathologist did not know what had triggered that compliment, but decided to just accept it. Sherlock Holmes making compliments was a rare case. She smiled shyly and had to acknowledge that sometimes this version of Sherlock was not so bad.

That made her think of her amnesia-Sherlock-list in her bag and of a question, she still needed an answer for. And since he seemed to think of her quite highly at the moment, she decided to try her luck.  
"Do you remember how we met?" she asked innocently and in what she hoped was a casual tone.  
Sherlock did not even look up from his phone or stop typing when he answered, "Of course. You were working on the case I helped Greg with."  
Molly could not help a sigh. That had not been as specific as she had hoped. She guessed she would have to try again on another day to gather that specific information; one piece of the complicated puzzle that was the (partly) invented life of William Holmes.

Molly's musing was interrupted by Sherlock who had put away his phone again and stated, "You cleaned the flat while I was in Winchester." He didn't say it in any way accusingly. It was an observation, neutral, which was extraordinary, given the fact that the old Sherlock had hated it when Mrs Hudson had cleaned up.

Molly nodded while he looked around the room. And then she felt it again: The stab of jealousy, and she remembered what she had found in the top drawer of the cabinet. She didn't know if she should bring it up. But he would know that she'd found it. He always knew when something had been moved. "Dust is eloquent," she had heard him say once.

"You've told me you don't keep souvenirs from your cases," she voiced out loud.  
"I don't," he confirmed while trying to figure out where this was heading to. "John keeps the cufflinks and tiepins."  
"Then why did you keep her phone?" Molly didn't need to specify whose phone she meant.  
A mild look of alarm crossed Sherlock's face before he carefully composed blandness.  
"I wasn't going through your stuff," she vindicated hastily, "I found it while cleaning."  
He directed his gaze away from her.  
"It must mean something to you. You never keep souvenirs." She knew she was pushing him, but she couldn't help it. She was not angry. She had no right to be. She understood the wish to keep something from a person that meant something to you. She just wanted to understand why he had kept it.  
His gaze swept around the room and then settled on the mantelpiece.  
"I kept Billy," he said, as if that would explain everything.  
Molly didn't feel brilliant anymore. On the contrary, she felt rather stupid. "Yes, but… What do you mean you kept Billy?"  
He returned to look at her once more. She couldn't begin to decipher his thoughts.  
"Our first case together," was all he said, while he regarded her, patiently waiting for her to catch up. Patience – another trait that this version of Sherlock possessed – if he wanted to.

The pathologist thought back on the day when Lestrade had walked into the morgue in the company of a certain Sherlock Holmes who had come straight from the _Reigate Rehab_ , where human remains had been found. Molly had had to examine the skeleton and had found out that a shot had been the cause of death. Furthermore she had identified the victim as the driver of Dr Cunningham – the former director of the institution – whose name had been William Kirwan. But everyone had called him Billy.

Sherlock watched the penny drop.  
"You mean Billy the skull is… Billy?!" Molly breathed and glanced over to the skull in question that stared back at her with hollow eyes.  
She looked back at the man in front of her. "But you can't just take a skull away from a body!" Her voice raised in pitch as her agitation grew.  
Sherlock organized his face into a smile, but his eyes remained detached from the process. "Obviously I could. It's not like he would miss it."  
Molly opened her mouth, but then had to close it again, since she lacked a retort. What could one possibly say to that? She sighed deeply and slowly shook her head.

"The phone," Sherlock began again, his voice was suddenly carefully empty of the tenderness of a moment ago, "it reminds me that sentiment is a disadvantage."  
"That makes no sense. You keep it to remind you that sentiment is not an advantage, yet it is sentiment that made you keep it in the first place." Molly tried to understand what he wanted to say, but she couldn't wrap her head around it.

She watched his face as she saw half a dozen possible responses flare to life and then fade his mind.

Instead of going into her statement, he cleared his throat and asked, "You want me to throw it away?" He sounded harsher than he had intended to.  
But Molly was not intimidated by it, on the contrary, she felt calm all of a sudden. She understood. It was not her place to expect from him to do that for her. It was his right to behave the way he did. She had forced him into a corner. He was trying to defend his privacy and his past. How would she react if Sherlock confronted her with her history of boyfriends? Girlfriend was probably not the right term for what Irene Adler had been to him, but she had been something to him at some point in his life.

She took a tentative step towards him and took his right hand in hers. There was a change in his countenance and his features softened. She squeezed his hand lightly and told him sincerely, "No, I could not take away your past from you."  
'Not when there's already been taken away so much of it,' she added silently in her head.

* * *

**A/N: Some people have asked me if I could point out the references to the canon of ACD that I make in this story. As much as I would like to please my readers, I think that it is more fun for you (and me) if I don't. That way – I think – people who recognize the references might appreciate them and people who don't just enjoy the story (hopefully). But I can tell you that much: In this story almost every name and all cases I mention are somehow related to the universe that ACD created. E.g., in this chapter the namesake of Billy the skull is the coachman that is shot in** _**The Reigate Squires** _ **.**


	15. Mind Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welcome back to the land of the forgotten… forgetting… amnesia Sherlock. Thank you all for being so wonderful! 
> 
> It's time to do something about Sherlock's condition, don't you think? 
> 
> I'd be lost without my beta. Thanks, Pipsis!

**15\. Mind Games**

"Sometimes you can't let go of the past without facing it again."  
― Gail Tsukiyama, _The Samurai's Garden_

 

Although Sherlock Holmes had changed quite a bit since he had had an encounter with the fist of an unknown person and a posh marble table, his three best friends were more or less the same. They were still as loyal, strong and caring as they had always been. Only now they were a bit more concerned than usual about the well-being of their favourite high functioning sociopath.

That was the reason why they sat together around a table in a café and discussed their respective experiences with their friend from the last couple of days. It was not only the three of them, but also Sherlock's goddaughter, but she had chosen to rather stay asleep in her pram beside her mother than interrupting the plotting of her parents. As much as the trio liked a nice Sherlock, they were worried that there had not been any progress so far.

"The upside is that we're slowly able to piece the puzzle together," Mary tried to be positive, "With the help of our lists we've managed to gather a lot of important information about the man Sherlock is now." The blonde knew that this was not really to be considered as progress, but she saw the need to bring attention to the fact that the situation had improved. A bit. Maybe.

Molly closed her hands around her cup on the table and started to tell them about another change in the consulting detective, "I think this Sherlock is now interested in the stars and the universe."  
John looked at her bemused, "How come you think so?"  
"When I came home the other day, I caught him reading a book called _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ ," she reported.  
John leaned back into his seat and shook his head. "This is getting weirder day by day."  
Molly chucked bitterly, "Tell me about it!"

They all fell silent for a moment in which John regarded Molly more closely. She had lost weight and although she tried to hide it with make-up, he could detect the dark circles under her eyes. It was plain to see that the situation was weighing heavily on the petite pathologist. Of course it was not easy for him either, but he mostly saw Sherlock while working on a case and in those moments he was more or less almost his old self. He did not even dare to imagine how Molly must have felt – being around him almost every day and night. He knew that she sometimes stayed at work longer than she needed, just to have some time for herself. John did not blame her. He knew that living with Sherlock Holmes was a challenge, yet he had only been his flatmate (as he had told Mrs Hudson on more than one occasion). Things between Molly and Sherlock had been strained since her kidnapping – not because of Molly, but because his git of a best friend could not come to terms with the fact that he did have feelings; that he was human after all; and that maybe he was a bit of a hero. John would have never told him the last bit. Sherlock's ego was already big enough.

"Did you ever talk to him about it?" the former army doctor asked Molly.  
The faraway look she had worn a moment ago vanished and instead she focused on John, "About what?"  
"The abduction."  
She gave him a look that clearly said, "Are you kidding me?"  
John shrugged and cleared his throat. But before he could say something, Molly told him, "He was there when I gave my statement at the Yard."  
John's eyebrows raised in surprise.  
Molly clarified, "I mean… he was not in the room with me – only Lestrade was there – and I didn't even see him, but I just knew that he was standing behind the one-way mirror, his eyes fixed on me. I could feel it." She lowered her gaze, as if she was embarrassed. "But I asked Lestrade about it a few days later, and he confirmed it. Sherlock had been there the whole time."  
"But he did not talk to you?"  
John was careful to keep his voice calm, although he felt his insides twist into a knot because of the ridiculous behaviour of his best friend.  
Molly shook her head and did nothing to hide her disappointment. "No, he was gone by the time I left the interrogation room."

There was a small pause, before Molly resumed talking, "I thought about bringing it up now, but I still don't know when he thinks we've officially become a couple or when and how our first date was, so I am not sure…," her voice drifted off.  
"You mean if he is under the impression that you were already engaged when the abduction happened."  
John had not phrased it like a question, but Molly nodded anyway.  
"I see your dilemma," John said with sympathy.

Molly stared into her half empty mug (she was really not in the mood to call it half full) while John sighed deeply. His wife laid a hand over Molly's and squeezed it.  
The brunette mimicked the gesture and then confessed in a low voice, "It's like my best dream and my worst nightmare come true – all at once. He is Sherlock, but he isn't. I know it sounds confusing, but I don't know how to explain it. He is not the man I fell in love with."  
Mary tried to lighten the mood, "That's a sentence often uttered by married couples, not by newly engaged."  
Unfortunately Molly was not in the mood for joking, "Mary, I'm being serious!"  
The blonde gave her a sympathetic look and squeezed her hand again, "Sorry. I know he is different from… before."  
Molly shook her head, extracted her hand from Mary's and made a helpless gesture with it, "Sometimes he is so nice that I want to slap him across the face and tell him to stop this ridiculous act. What is wrong with me? Why can't I be happy with a nice and caring man?"

John could see that she got angrier with every sentence, and he was not sure if it was because of Sherlock or herself. Probably she couldn't tell herself.

Mary nodded in understanding. "Because Sherlock Holmes is not supposed to be nice and caring. At least not to this extent."

Molly looked at John's wife for a moment and then bowed her head and muttered defeated, "I want the old Sherlock back. How sick is that? And what does that say about me?!"  
"He used to be a sociopath, now…" Mary's voice trailed off.  
Her husband interjected, "Who would have ever thought that we would miss his arrogant, narcissistic attitude?"

Slowly Molly sat back up and leaned against the backrest. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to deceive someone 24/7?"  
"We're not deceiving him," John stated.  
"Do you seriously believe that?"  
Molly's rhetoric question made him pause. John was not sure. Maybe he did. Or maybe he just needed to tell himself that he did; otherwise we could not do it.

"I had hoped I would never have to do something like this again," Molly mumbled as if to herself.  
She didn't need to specify what she meant. Her friends knew that she was talking about the two years of Sherlock's "death."

None of them knew what to say to that. So it was on Mary again to try a change of topic, "What about the wedding? Did anyone take care of the things on their list?"  
Her husband and her friend both raised their eyebrows as if asking her if she was out of her mind too.  
Mary shrugged, "Me neither."

Molly took a sip of her coffee before she said, "Sherlock may be nice now, but he is still Sherlock and of course he notices that I never initiate physical contact or that I try to avoid the subject of our wedding. I honestly don't know how long I can keep it up. Sooner or later he'll confront me about it. And I don't know what to tell him then."

John instinctively knew that there was more to come, so he patiently waited for her to continue. If sharing a flat with a petulant child and having a daughter had taught him anything, then it was being patient.

John had been right, because Molly spoke up again, "We need to do something. We need to speed up the process to get his full memory back."  
John could not help a sarcastic comment, "Maybe hitting something over his head again might help?"  
Mary raised her eyebrows. "I take that is the professional opinion of a doctor?"  
Fortunately it made Molly chuckle before she continued, "The doctor said we should expose Sherlock to memories from the loss."  
"How do you intend on doing that?" Mary asked, not knowing where the brunette was getting to.

Molly sat up straight and suddenly her body language spoke of pure confidence. "I've done additional research in the last couple of days and I have talked to some colleagues about Sherlock's condition. I think there's a need for artifice."

Her friends instinctively leaned a bit closer.

Molly continued, "This is all more or less a sick kind of play, isn't it? Sherlock's play. So why not turn the tables and make it our play? I think we should try to re-enact some scenes with Sherlock. Maybe that would help."

It took John and his wife a moment to process the information.

"You are saying that we should... stage... incidents we've had with Sherlock... like...?" John tried to follow her plan.  
Molly nodded eagerly. "Yes. Like when you've met for the first time or the moment he asked you to be his best man. Of course we need to pick memories he has lost. Or we think he has lost... I admit it might be a bit tricky."

Mary and her husband stared at the petite woman in front of them for some time. It was too easy to forget that Molly Hooper was so much more than first met the eye. And not for the first time John wondered if Sherlock had been able to see that all along? That behind the façade of the shy pathologist, Molly Hooper could be witty, cunning and brave. Was that why he cared about her, or why he had tried to push her away?

John let the idea Molly was suggesting sink it. It was more than a bit tricky. It needed planning and organization. And it could go terribly wrong. But what else was there to do?

"And you think this could be cumulative?" he asked.  
"I know it sounds like an odd idea, but given the situation," Molly tried to explain.

The Watsons contemplated the suggestion.

Suddenly John chuckled. The women gave him a funny look, not knowing what was amusing about the situation.  
John explained, "I think re-enacting scenes between Sherlock and me could be a challenge. Him ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool..." A bemused smile danced on his lips at the memory of this fateful night.

The women raised their eyebrows in unison, and Mary shook her head and held up a hand. "I don't wanna know. I have my past and you have yours," she told her husband in mock-indignation.  
"Mrs Hudson would love that story," Molly chimed in and the three shared a laugh.

After their laughter had died down, Molly became serious once more. "So what do you think? Are you in?"  
John and his wife shared a look, then turned towards their friend, a determined expression on their faces, and John said, "We're in."


	16. All the World's a Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Love you all for your constant support and comments! I am so curious what you think about this chapter. 
> 
> I know no one remembers conversations by heart, but let's just assume for the sake of entertainment that Sherlock's friends have eidetic memory and do know what they said and did years ago. 
> 
> While re-inventing the scenes from the show, I had to double check some lines from the episodes (because I don't have eidetic memory), and to save time I looked them up on Ariane DeVere's Live Journal page. Although you probably don't read this, Ariane, let me say that I really appreciate you providing us with a transcript. I know from experience how much work it is, so THANK YOU! 
> 
> Thank you Pipsis for being my dramaturge ;-) 
> 
> The credit for the lines I borrowed from the show goes to their respective writers, of course. And again the credit for the title to Mr Will S. I am aware that I use a lot of WS in this story, but what can I say? He is so quotable ;-)

**16\. All the World's a Stage**

"The scene is memory and is therefore non-realistic. Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart."  
― Tennessee Williams, _The Glass Menagerie_

For normal amnesia patients "exposing them to memories from the loss" meant that photographs of their lost years were shown to them or that they went to visit the house they had used to live in. But Sherlock Holmes was not to be considered a "normal" patient (he was not even a "normal" person – whatever that meant). He was extraordinary. And extraordinary circumstances demanded extraordinary measures. Hence his best friends had decided to take things into their own hands instead of sitting back, waiting and hoping for Sherlock's memories to return. Time could heal a lot, but what if you had lost some of it?

The Watsons and Molly had arranged a meeting with all their other friends (even Mycroft had attended, although he had left the room a few times in order to take some phone calls) and had explained the idea of re-enacting scenes from the past with the patient. Everyone had been taken aback at first, but in the end all of them had agreed to be part of it (Mycroft had not really voiced his consent out loud; actually he had remained silent, and that was as much acceptance as the friends would get). They had agreed on some instances they knew Sherlock remembered differently from what they had been and had decided to try and re-enact those. At the latest now they all had felt like they were part of some conspiracy. And no one was fond of that feeling. But they deemed it necessary to help their friend. And that was what kept their bad conscious at bay.

Molly had the honour of having the first scene in the memory play _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_. The props were in place: The dead body on the slab, the riding crop and of course the lipstick. The play was about to begin:

When Molly Hooper (early thirties, pathologist and producer) heard the swinging doors being pushed open dramatically (enter Sherlock Holmes – mid thirties, consulting detective suffering from retrograde amnesia), she sent a mental excuse to the soul of the dead man whose body she was about to beat with a riding crop and hoped that he would understand that it was for a greater good.

Just as Sherlock rounded the corner, she started to beat the corpse on the table in front of her with the device in her hand. He stopped in the doorway and watched his fiancée with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.  
"So, bad day, was it?" he chuckled and indicated with his head towards the dead man's body.  
Molly stopped dead in her movement. For a second she could not hide the surprise that washed over her face. This had been her line. He had stolen her line!  
She did her best not to depart from the script, lowered the riding crop, smiled at her fiancé and explained, "Sixty-seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, regarded her with interest and walked over to Molly and her dead friend. He indicated towards the object in her hand, "Doesn't look like you were overly fond of him, though."

Molly tried to stamp her bad conscious down. "He donated his body to science. I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes," she explained.  
"Obviously," he said and nodded as if it was indeed daily routine to beat a dead body with a riding crop.

On cue Sherlock's phone went off. He rolled his eyes, took it out of his coat pocket and looked at the display. "John," he told Molly and turned around to exit the room to take the phone call.

Quickly Molly put the riding crop away (asked the man on the table for forgiveness again) applied her lipstick (the same colour she had worn then) and once again Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway.

Molly walked over to him. "What's the matter?" she asked, meaning the phone call from John.  
A bit annoyed Sherlock shook his head. "He just wanted to make sure that the meeting in the canteen later still stands. Why does he have to call me for that? A text would have been sufficient. Sometimes I wonder if his brain had suffered a bit under the birth of his child."

For a second Molly was shocked. Not because of the rudeness of the statement, but because it sounded so much like the old Sherlock. And such a sentence coming out of the mouth of a man who suffered from amnesia; the irony was not lost on her. She shook herself out of it and proceeded with the scene. She came to stand in front of him and tried to look as nervous as possible.  
"Sherlock, listen, I was wondering: maybe later, when you're finished..."  
His brows furrowed as he studied her face. "Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before."  
The pathologist managed to keep her face in check, but she was sure her eyes had widened fractionally from the joy she was feeling. Was it possible that her plan worked?

Still she delivered her next line as scripted, "I... er... I refreshed it a bit."  
She smiled at him, just like she was supposed to, and he graced her with the same oblivious look he had given her then. He shook his head as if getting rid of some confusing thoughts. "Sorry, you were saying?"

Somehow Molly didn't have to play bringing up her courage to ask him out, because suddenly she felt exactly like she had back then. She felt just as nervous and self-conscious as the first time she had wanted to be brave and make the first step. The only difference was that now she was not anxious because she was afraid of his rejection, but because she was afraid of him taking her up on it.

She looked him in the eyes. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."  
The seconds until his reply felt endless. Molly didn't dare to breathe.  
Finally he opened his mouth, "Is this a conspiracy?" His eyes narrowed.  
No, that definitely did not go according to the script. This was not his line. This was not scripted. Where was the prompter?  
Molly's heart stopped a beat.  
"What?" she breathed and blanched.  
"At first John asks me if the meeting still stands and then you are asking silly questions about coffee..." he sounded bemused; definitely bemused and not angry. "Of course I'd like to have coffee with you, but we've already agreed to meet at the canteen later, so..."  
"Oh," was all Molly could muster when realizing what he meant.

Sherlock looked at her as if he found her reaction endearing, effectively wiping all traces of the old Sherlock from his face. He leaned down, gave her a peck on the lips and said, "I'll be in the lab. See you later in the canteen."  
He then turned around and left the morgue with billowing coat (exit Sherlock Holmes).


	17. Remember, remember, ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all you wonderful people for your constant support. It means the world to me! 
> 
> Although I am not very fond of physical contact, I would like to hug my wonderful beta Pipsis. 
> 
> The credit for the lines I borrowed from the show goes to their respective writers.

**17\. Remeber, remember...**

"Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart." - Thomas Fuller

 

The first scene of _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_ had not gone according to script. It would have been a lie to say that the producers were not a bit disappointed by that, but the play had only just begun, and there had been some promising moments. Therefore the show had to go on.

It was their weekly update meeting concerning the planning of the wedding, and Sherlock had decided that it should take place in the canteen of St Bart's this time, because that way it would not interfere with his experiments and Molly's schedule.

Molly had gone up a bit earlier than agreed with Sherlock to report to the Watsons how the scene with the riding crop had gone. As stated before, they were not happy about it, but decided to stick to their original plan.

The pathologist was standing in line to get herself something to eat when she heard the well-known baritone behind her, "What are you thinking: chicken or pasta?"  
She turned around in surprise and found him standing a bit too close. "Oh, there you are!"  
She knew that was probably not what she had said back then when he had asked her a similar question in the canteen to get access to the bodies of Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis, but she did not remember all her conversations with the consulting detective by heart, and they had not planned on re-enacting this particular scene. But since fate seemed to be on their sides, she decided to play along.

"This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" Sherlock went on.  
Molly tried to remember what she was supposed to say now, when he did a double-take from the self-service display to her. "What happened to the lipstick?"  
Molly didn't need to think twice about what to reply, "It wasn't working for me."  
Inwardly Molly prepared herself for the insult that was supposed to follow.  
"I agree. Your lips don't need artificial improvement. They are perfect just the way they are."  
Molly's eyes became as big as saucers. Although he had said it very matter-of-factly it had not been as insulting as she had expected. It had not been insulting at all. It had been a compliment. She could not help but be flattered.  
Sherlock pointed his head towards the queue. "Molly, I think it's your turn."

* * *

 

Molly had decided on pasta (sticking to Sherlock's advice from a time when he had thought her mouth needed artificial improvement) and Sherlock on chicken (this Sherlock ate during cases; not on a regular basis – he still did not have an epicurean attitude towards food, but he did eat).

The Watsons opted for coffee only. Baby Watson was at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson loved to spend time with the little one and John and Mary were glad to have some time for themselves now and then.  
"So," Sherlock began while finishing his dish, "update me. Any progress?"

John had to suppress a smile. He found it funny that his best friend talked about the planning of his wedding as if it was a case or a military mission.

"We have the catering, the flower arrangements, the table decoration and we agreed on the menu," Mary proclaimed happily.  
"And we agreed on the stickers," John added.  
"You did?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, looking from his best man towards his bride-to-be.  
Molly finished her pasta and nodded eagerly, "Yes we did. You'll like it."  
Sherlock shrugged, "If you say so."  
Of course they had never agreed or even discussed the topic of stickers or flowers.  
"What kind of flowers?" Sherlock asked. Sometimes it was a nuisance that he was such a curious person.  
Before John or Molly could answer Mary responded with a wink, "It's going to be surprise."  
"I hate surprises, and you know I could deduce it if I wanted," the consulting detective challenged her.  
Mary shrugged, as if she didn't care, although inwardly prayed that he would not try such a thing. "We all know you could, but that would ruin it, wouldn't it?" Yes, it would ruin their whole plan...

"Sherlock built a model from the venue," Molly piped in before Sherlock would consider deducing some other things about the fake-wedding-planning.  
"You did the same thing for our wedding, didn't you?" John said and took a sip of his coffee.  
The dark haired man nodded. "I took care of the seating." He pulled out a piece of paper and presented them a blueprint of _The Belvedere_ where the reception was to take place. Now John just knew that Sherlock went about his wedding just like it was a mission.  
"You know that we are planning a wedding, and not a bank heist, do you, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock had drawn a sketch with the seating arrangement and explained it to them, ignoring John's question completely.

"You can take care of the place cards according to this plan," he told them at the end of his explanation.  
"Very well," Mary answered for the other two, sensing this was all a bit much for them – especially Molly – and put the sketch into her bag.

To keep the conversation going Mary turned towards her friend, "Molly, you should think about what you'll want to do for your hen night. And if you don't come up with something fun, Meena and I will think of something." Mary gave her a wicked grin which made Molly smile.  
"That's a threat! I'll think of something."  
Mary turned to the future groom, "Just a shot in the dark, but..."  
"Again?" Sherlock interrupted her, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.  
"Very funny..." John stated, not amused at all, as opposed to his wife. Her shooting his best friend was still a sore topic.  
"Since we've already established that I am good at shooting in the dark," Mary paused and flashed them an enigmatic smile, "I assume you don't want a stag night, Sherlock?"  
"Absolutely not!" He sounded almost scandalized.  
"I don't think you got a saying in this, mate," John stated flatly. "As your best man it is my duty to repay you for the organisation of my stag night. And I could not destroy the dream of Lestrade and Anderson to see you get drunk."  
"Please don't invite Anderson," Sherlock said almost pleadingly.  
John looked at him gobsmacked.  
"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, not getting why his best man looked at him the way he did.  
"You've just said please," John explained, the wonder plain in his voice.  
Sherlock scoffed, "Of course I've said please. It would've been quite rude otherwise, wouldn't it?"  
Mary kicked her husband under the table and pulled John out of his momentary state of astonishment.  
He cleared his throat, "Yes, of course it would've... I mean... No, I won't invite Anderson, don't worry."

Everyone went silent for a moment while John reprimanded himself silently for still showing his surprise at Sherlock's new civil side.

"I thought about the waltz," Sherlock suddenly said, "I'll have to prerecord it, because I cannot play while we're dancing," he looked at his fiancée. "Unless you would like to have the first dance with someone else?"  
"That's out of the question," Molly answered before she could even think about it.  
"I thought so," her fiancé said.

"Is there something else?" Molly asked. She wanted this meeting to end. Not only because talking about her fake-wedding made her insides turn into knots, but because she had to get back to work. She never overran her lunch break. She always hated her colleagues for doing that.

The pathologist did not really expect an answer to her question – it had been more of a rhetorical question – except to Mrs Watson, "We should not forget about the four most important things!"

When everyone looked at her in question, she elaborated, "Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue." It was obvious that the maid-of-honour had way too much fun planning this fake-wedding.  
"I will think about it," Molly said with a slightly angry note in her tone. She knew Mary meant well, but for her this was no game. This was her wedding they were talking about. The wedding she had always dreamed of. The wedding that could and would never be.

"How about a blue carbuncle?" John suggested and all turned to look at him.  
Sherlock snorted, "Don't be stupid! From where should we get a blue carbuncle? They don't sell them in Christmas geese, do they? How come you even think of a blue carbuncle?"  
John shrugged, "I read it in the paper: There was this robbery in Eastern Europe where they stole a blue carbuncle."  
Sherlock just shook his head. "Why do the most interesting cases always happen somewhere else?" he said wistfully and rose to stand and took Molly's hand. It did not escape his notice that she flinched slightly when he touched her. She did that most of the time. She thought he would not notice, but he did, of course. And he desperately wanted to know the reason for it. He had thought about asking her about it, but had decided to wait. He wanted to give her some time. She would talk to him when she was ready. He hoped she would. He did not want to force her, because he had the suspicion that doing so would make it worse.

"You should start to think about your wedding dress," he told Molly and squeezed her hand gently. She blanched slightly and swallowed. "I thought about wearing Mary's" she squeaked.  
Sherlock was taken aback. "Why would you do that? You would look horrible!"  
Mary shot him a look.  
The consulting detective hastened to correct his error, "I mean, Mary looked nice in it, but it would not suit you, Molly. I thought most girls dream was to buy a wedding dress. You've always wanted to look like a princess on your wedding day."  
He did not phrase it as a general statement. And it was not meant to be one. He was solemnly talking about Molly. He knew her well enough to be certain that this had always been her wish. She couldn't argue with that, because it was true.

Helplessly Molly looked at the Watsons, and again Mary was the one to save the situation, "Molly was just joking. Of course we've already talked about the dress. Don't worry, Sherlock, I'll take care of it. You've approved of the last dress she bought with me, haven't you?" Mary flashed him a knowing smile.

Sherlock turned towards his fiancée that had gone rigid beside him and said, "I have indeed."

He then leaned closer to her so the others could not hear. He felt, rather than heard, her breath catch as he neared her. He then whispered in a tone full of seductive promise, "And this time you'll be the one in for a surprise."

* * *

**A/N: A bit of a filler chapter, I know. Sorry… There will be more action in the next one.**


	18. Mind your Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you – as always – for reading, following, reviewing, … You are all so wonderful! 
> 
> Amy Dorrit: Nun wirst du endlich über den Garten und den Sessel lesen ;-) 
> 
> Some field work is overdue, don't you think?

**18\. Mind your Step**

"Memory is a mirror that scandalously lies."  
― Julio Cortázar, _Around the Day in Eighty Worlds_

"That's why Molly is the perfect woman for me," Sherlock said out of the blue.  
John did a double take, not getting where this revelation had come from. "Why?"  
"Because she's a bit like you."  
"This is one of those sentences why the rumours about us will never stop," John muttered and shook his head.

But Sherlock carried on, as if his best friend had not spoken.  
"She stimulates the genius in me and is a conductor of light, just like you are."  
John cleared his throat and looked around. He was glad that they were alone at the moment and no one could hear the peculiar words that came out of the mouth of his best friend. He knew very well that it was meant to be a compliment, a very flattering one, but somehow it didn't feels like it was.

They were standing outside the garden of the Rucastle's mansion. To be precise, they were standing outside the hedge and the fence that surrounded it. It had nothing to do with the fact that they had not been invited (be clear, they had indeed not been invited) why they were standing outside the fence looking in, but because Sherlock Holmes had decided that this was the place to be. His blogger was still in the dark why he thought so.

Before their wedding-update-meeting, Sherlock had texted him that it was of extreme importance that they would travel to the Rucastle estate again and do a stroll through the garden, "because of the chair." Needless to say that John had thought that probably Sherlock had had one of his weird I-lost-my-mind-moments, but as it had turned out, he had been quite serious about it. Therefore they had gone there the next morning. John had tried to call Miss Hunter and inform them of their visit, but he had been greeted by her voice mail. He had left a message, but had not heard back from her. Naturally that did not keep the consulting detective from going there anyway.

Therefore now Sherlock walked along the fence that went around the garden, his blogger following behind equally dutiful as clueless. Because so far there was no chair in sight – and no IKEA either.

"I knew from the beginning that the position of the chair in the sitting room was of profound importance, but I could not figure out why right away. Then Molly made a comment about her feeling as if someone was watching her when the chair was facing away from the window. And suddenly it made sense."  
"I'm sorry, it still doesn't make sense to me." John tried to keep up with the long strides of his taller friend, who was impatient to find the spot he was looking for. His friend would have helped him, had he known what he was supposed to be looking for.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, turned towards John and said with an excited glint in his eyes, "Someone is watching."  
John looked at him quizzically and Sherlock pointed his index finger towards a hole in the hedge.

The blonde haired man took a step forward and looked at the spot Sherlock was pointing at. Through the hole one could see directly into the sitting room of the Rucastles, where the chair stood by the window.  
John turned towards his friend and stated, "I can see into the sitting room."  
He mentally berated himself as soon as the words had left his mouth, because he was "stating the obvious", but luckily amnesia-Sherlock held back a snarky comment. Instead he only nodded and started to inspect their surroundings more closely. He knelt down and touched the grass, then he went closer to the hole and inspected it by touching the leafs (that had already turned brown and yellow). He was acutely observant, and John knew better than to interrupt Sherlock, while he was looking for clues.

After a few more moments, John dared to ask a question, because he also knew that Sherlock loved to show off by telling the rest of the world about his observations. Since his blogger was the only other person present at the moment, he could be considered as "the rest of the world."  
"So, who's watching, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rounded his friend and pointed out the (for him) obvious clues, "The grass is trampled, which indicates that he has been here on a regular basis. The way he takes to come here tells us that he knows his way around, he is a local. From the condition of the bushes we can be sure that he has started coming here not much longer than since Miss Hunter had arrived at the Rucastles. He probably started coming here a month prior to her arrival, but not much more. And of course he is about 6 ft. tall."

John watched his friend. Even after years of working with him, he was still amazed about his incredible observational skills.  
"Of course," John commented drily.

Sherlock looked at John, as if he had forgotten that he was there as well.  
John went through Sherlock's observations in his head again and then asked, "He? How do we know that it is a He?"  
His friend grinned. "We know that because of the footprints." He pointed towards the small trampled path that lead towards the hole in the bush. "Shoes of a young man, 6ft. tall, of athletic stature, was coming and leaving in a haste and always staying here for about an hour or two once a week."  
"I see," was all that John could say to that. As usual he was in no place to argue with the reasoning of the consulting detective. Therefore he reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out his notepad and wrote Sherlock's deductions down.

Sherlock knelt down, pulled an evidence bag out of his coat pocket as well as a small jack-knife, extracted something that seemed to be trampled into the grass and put it into the evidence bag. He stored the items back into his coat pocket.

Then he stepped a few steps back and looked up. His eyes glided over the windows of the first storey of the house. Suddenly he squinted.

John looked up from his notes and went over to stand next to his friend, wanting to see what had caught the attention of the consulting detective.  
"See those four windows up there, John? Two of them are nailed up."  
"Maybe the rooms are abandoned? It is a big house, after all. And there are more rooms than needed," John suggested.  
Sherlock shook his head. "No. They are not abandoned."  
"Those are the dark rooms for photography," a voice behind them suddenly chimed in.

The investigating duo turned around and found themselves face to face with Mr Toller, the butler (Although John was not sure if "Butler" was the correct term. In _Downton Abbey_ they were called "footman" or "valet" – from what he had heard from Mary…).

Sherlock obviously did not bother with such trivial questions. Instead he arched one of his eyebrows in that arrogant way of his and stared at the steward inquisitively, "That's very interesting," he said in an absolute disinterested tone.  
His next words were directed at John, "Maybe we should give Mr Rucastle the advice to occupy his time with something else, because the photographs in his house (at least the ones he made) were taken by a poor amateur."  
John gave his friend a half smile.  
Mr Toller did not like at all that he was being ignored. Hence he asked Sherlock directly, while trying to sound nonchalant, "No advice for me, Mister Holmes?"  
When the man in the Belstaff finally acknowledged the presence of the butler, he gave him a cold look and told him, "My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth."  
Without sparing the man a second glance he sidestepped him and went into the direction of the entrance.

* * *

After picking up the pieces of his ego, Mr Toller had decided to follow the detective. Sherlock had proven that the steward was not the only one who was capable of lying, because he had told him directly that Ms Hunter was expecting them. Henceforth Mr Toller had no other choice but to let the two men into the house and call for the governess. He had led them into the study where they were waiting for the young woman. Mr and Mrs Rucastle were not at home. Somehow Sherlock had not been surprised by that fact. John would go so far as to say that he had been well aware of it.

John looked around the room and pondered that the two candlesticks on the mantelpiece were probably worth more than all the furniture in his entire flat, when Sherlock asked, "Did you see it?"  
"What?" Once again John had no clue what his friend was talking about.  
Sherlock gestured around the room and into the direction of the door they had come through, probably meaning the corridor and the hall. "There are no pictures of her."  
"Of whom?" John crossed his arms in front of his chest. He hated it when people did that; acting as if the other person were to know what they were talking about. Then again, Sherlock didn't count as "people." Still it was annoying.  
"Alice Rucastle," Sherlock said.  
"The daughter?"  
"Of course the daughter, who else?" The detective rolled his eyes; another thing that was annoying, but John had come to tolerate.

Sherlock went over to the desk, opened the top drawer, smiled mischievously, closed it again, glided his fingers over the smooth mahogany surface and went on to study the other objects on the table while he explained to John, "Generally people tend to be overly sentimental about their offspring and put up pictures of them."

Being a father himself, John tried his best not to be offended by the statement of his friend. Instead he wanted to know, "And that tells us what exactly?"

"That Mr Rucastle is neither very fond of photography nor of his daughter. But he seems to have a liking for security cameras, because they are all over the place."

John did not have more time to ask further questions, because the door opened and Miss Hunter walked in, followed by a light-brown Chihuahua.  
"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, I did not expect you." She looked from one man to the other, a bit shaken.

Sherlock shrugged, but had the decency to look apologetic. "We were in the neighbourhood." He flashed her a grin. It was one of those occasions where John was privileged to witness how charming Sherlock could be if he wanted to, for Miss Hunter's troubled expression left her face and she smiled back timidly.  
"Did Mr Toller offer you something to drink?" She asked the men, realizing that they did not have a beverage yet.  
Sherlock waved it off. "No, but we don't need anything, thank you. We won't occupy much of your time."  
John was a bit disappointed, because he would have liked a drink. But now it would have been rude to contradict his friend.

"And who is this?" John knelt down and addressed the Chihuahua. The small dog enthusiastically wagged its tale and ran towards the former army doctor, eager to be petted.  
"This is Carlos," the governess explained.  
"That's Mr Rucastle's dog?!" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously.  
"Yes." Miss Hunter confirmed.  
"I had expected something… I don't know… something…"  
"More intimidating?" John suggested while the dog turned away from him and made its way towards Sherlock who had knelt down as well to pet the little creature.  
"… bigger… maybe like a mastiff…" Sherlock finished while petting Carlos who looked at the detective with his big eyes.  
Miss Hunter giggled and gestured the dog to come back to her side. The animal did as told. "Carlos maybe wished to be a mastiff. He definitely can behave like one."  
"Miss Hunter," Sherlock turned serious, "you told us that you heard weird noises coming from the first floor from the east wing."  
The careless expression left the woman's face and she nodded.  
"Am I right to assume that said wing is located above the sitting room?"  
Again the young governess nodded and paled.  
"Is there any other way to enter the premises than through the gate?"  
"No."  
"And the gate is closed at all times and Mr Toller is in charge of who is allowed in." Sherlock phrased it like a statement, but Miss Hunter confirmed it none the less by nodding.  
"Were you able to find out what is going on, Mister Holmes?"  
When Sherlock shook his head, John could see that the consulting detective meant it when he said, "I am sorry, Miss Hunter."  
The woman lowered her gaze and her fingers fumbled with the hem of her blouse.  
"But we've found some new clues," Sherlock added, and when she looked back up, she tried to put on a brave face and hide her disappointment.  
"Is there anything I can do to help you?"  
"No, just act as normal as possible and stick to your routine."

Somehow Sherlock's words reminded John of the ones the doctor had spoken in the hospital when they had asked how they were supposed to deal with Sherlock's condition. Hearing them now from the patient himself seemed weird.

"I understand," Miss Hunter nodded dutifully, "and I will let you know if something… happens."

* * *

"Are you pondering what I'm pondering?" Sherlock asked his friend when they were on their way back to London.  
John had to hold back a chuckle and quote a line from _Pinky and the Brain_. Maybe this version of Sherlock would recognize it?

But before John could answer his friend who was staring outside the window, his phone buzzed, indicating an incoming message. He opened it and informed his friend, "It's from Mycroft. He tells me to tell you to have a look at the file." John put his phone away and sighed. "Can't he text you directly?"  
Sherlock did not bother to look away from the scenery, clearly only listening to John with half an ear. "He did. I did not answer."  
"Why not?"  
"I told you. Lost daddy case. Dull."  
John shook his head. I moments like these the former army doctor could almost forget that this was not the "real" Sherlock Holmes.  
"What did you pick up from the grass earlier?" John had been dying to ask the consulting detective about it since the moment he had done it.  
"There was some kind of seeds in the footprints. I am quite certain I know from which plant it is, but I need to make sure. I need to run some tests."

There was a long silence, in which Sherlock seemed to be in his mind palace again and John went through his notes of the case. He had the distinct feeling that he was missing something. Something that was in his notes, something that was staring in his face, but he could not see it.  
He was almost startled, when Sherlock suddenly turned towards him and asked in a casual tone – clearly trying to make small talk, "So, what are you going to do tonight?"  
John lowered his notes and gave his friend a rueful look, "The same thing Mary and I do every night, try to get some sleep."

* * *

**A/N: I desperately wanted to use "Pinky and the Brain" as chapter heading, but unfortunately it did not fit. So I had to include it that way ;-)**


	19. Criminal Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dear readers, Thank you a million times for being the wonderful way you are. Although we've learned in Cabin Pressure that no one can imagine a million – hence thank you a hundred times! ;-) 
> 
> Shame on me! I did not thank my wonderful beta Pipsis in the last chapter. That's why I'd like to thank her double this time. 
> 
> Again, all the credit for the lines I borrowed from the show goes to their respective writers.

**19\. Criminal Minds**

"People have an annoying habit of remembering things they shouldn't."  
― Christopher Paolini, _Eragon_

* * *

 

Falling asleep and waking up next to Sherlock Holmes had become routine to Molly Hooper, as had listening to him composing (he only worked on the waltz for their wedding when she was not at home, because he wanted it to be a surprise) and lecturing him about the separation of food and experiments in the fridge.

While still thinking about the Rucastle case, Sherlock solved minor cases in between. Since his change he was more willing to take up cases below a 5, because he wanted to help people. For most of the easy cases (lost cat, fraud, stolen necklace) he didn't even need to leave the flat. Suddenly most of the problems people approached him with were not beneath his contempt anymore; apart from the lost daddy case from Mycroft probably. Molly had the suspicion that it was some kind of brotherly rivalry that she did not understand.

One morning Sherlock had told her that she needn't go into the bathroom to change on his account. She had to keep herself from relying something along the lines of, "But on my account!" or "Believe me, I do!"

In short, on some days playing house with Sherlock Holmes was not bad at all and Molly's mind almost made her believe that it had always been like this, or that it would always be like that. But then her fiancé would say or do something nice and thoughtful and the pathologist was reminded that it was an impossible world she was living in that was just wrong.

Henceforth the friends of the consulting detective were determined to continue with their memory play _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_. The next re-enactment was supposed to be the scene in which the main antagonist had been introduced in person. Well, at the time no one had known that he was the bad guy, but every fairy tale needed a good old-fashioned villain, and so did every good drama. And this villain had turned out to be the mastermind of bad guys.

There had been doubts and discrepancies between the friends if and when to bring Moriarty up.

They were still not sure what exactly Sherlock remembered from his encounters with his nemesis, which meant that there was a certain possibility that re-enacting the first meeting with Moriarty would confuse the consulting detective only further and not help his condition. Especially Molly was very reluctant about the idea. Not only because she still got chills when she thought about the fact that her former... date... had been a consulting criminal (she could see a pattern concerning the word "consulting" in her choice in men), but also because she thought they did not have enough data yet. She wanted to wait and find out more about Sherlock's version before they would bring Jim from I.T. onto the stage.

Nevertheless his friends agreed that Moriarty had played an important part in Sherlock's life and also in the relationship of the consulting detective and his pathologist. It had altered the dynamics of their relationship.

John had been spurred on by the outcome of their last re-enactment and told them that Sherlock had behaved more and more normal while working on the Rucastle case. Additionally he pointed out that Sherlock was about to do some lab work, finding out what he had collected from the footprint at the Rucastle mansion. The initial situation was almost like it had been back then. So finally the former army doctor had convinced Molly to give it a try.

The tricky thing about this scene was that not only John and Molly were involved, but also a third party. They needed a supporting actor who would later become the main antagonist. For obvious reasons they could not ask Moriarty for help – even if he still had been alive it was very doubtful that he would have helped, although this was all a great game and if there had been one person (apart from Sherlock Holmes) that loved to play, it had been James Moriarty.

It was out of the question that Mary played the part of Jim from I.T. (although at some point in the past she had had the potential to become a villain) or any other acquaintance of Sherlock.

Subsequently they were in need of help. And they found it in the person of George Wessells, a befriended actor of Mary's. He would play the role of Jim from I.T. – although they had decided to change the character's name to Tim in this play. They explained the situation, gave him some lines and direction, let him know about the motivations of his character (as far as they knew about them) and then the curtain rose for the last scene of act one:

Sherlock Holmes (still in his mid-thirties and still suffering from retrograde amnesia) sat at the microscope in the lab at St Bartholomew's. Some trainers (props provided by the courtesy of the evidence room of _New Scotland Yard_ ) were placed on the far side of the table where Sherlock was working. John Watson (mid-thirties, former army doctor, producer) was leaning against a counter, doing some research. The computer beeped and showed a result. Sherlock looked at the screen. The door opened and in walked Molly Hooper (still pathologist and producer) and asked the man at the microscope, "Any luck?"  
"Oh yes!" Sherlock answered, but did not seem to be as enthusiastic as John had hoped.

Molly went over to look at what Sherlock had found out when the door opened again and in walked a man (enter Jim –Tim- from I.T., alias James Moriarty) in his thirties with dark hair, wearing slacks and a t-shirt, his underwear visible above the waistline (a very particular brand), tinted eyelashes and taurine cream around the frown lines. He stopped at the door and delivered his first line apologetically, just like he was supposed to, "Oh sorry, I didn't..."  
Molly hastened to keep him from leaving again, "Tim! Hi! Come in! Come in!"

Sherlock did not acknowledge the presence of the other man in the room, but looked back into the microscope, clearly frustrated with the result that was showing on the screen.

Slowly John made his way over to them and gave Molly a silent nod to move on according to their script.  
The woman cleared her throat and then introduced the man at the table, "Tim, this is Sherlock Holmes."  
"Ah," Tim said delighted.  
Molly then turned towards John, but he introduced himself, "John Watson. Hi."  
Tim responded in kind.  
An awkward silence followed.  
Sherlock still looked from the microscope to the computer screen and back and muttered something under his breath, not paying attention to the scene that was playing out before him – for him.  
So Tim went on, "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He slowly made his way to where the consulting detective was sitting.  
"Tim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly explained, "That's how we met." Of course she left out the bit about the "office romance." That would not have made sense given the circumstance, and would have definitely lead to complications.

But as it turned out, it did not even need that sentence to evoke complications. They had already done enough, for suddenly Sherlock went totally rigid in his chair. The other three did not realize it, but they all held their breath.

Slowly Sherlock turned his head, and when his eyes met theirs, all they could see in them was anger and hurt.  
"Are you trying to make fun of me?!" He asked his voice as hard as glass and his jaw set in a tense line.  
Molly swallowed hard, but John tried to act confused, "Why?"

This had not been the right way to react, because Sherlock shot up from his seat and exclaimed, "Tim from I.T.!?" The coldness in his eyes matched the one in his tone.  
He gestured wildly towards the man, who had no idea what was going on and wanted nothing more than to become invisible at the moment.

Molly was so startled by Sherlock's sudden outburst that she did not know what to do. She felt panic rising within her and looked at John for help. The former army doctor was about as clueless as she, now that they had detoured from the script. But he tried to save the situation, "Sherlock, calm down. We were just... Why won't you tell us what you have found?" He indicated towards the computer screen, desperately hoping that bringing his mind back onto the case would help. Of course it did not.

Sherlock stared at first at his former flatmate, as if he could not believe what had just come out of his mouth and then at his fiancée. The look he gave her was more of hurt and disappointment than of fury, and she felt something inside her break. He wordlessly turned around, took his coat and scarf from the seat, strode past them and left without so much as a second glance (exit Sherlock Holmes).

No "bravos" or "encores" were heard at the end of the first act – just awkward silence while the curtain fell.


	20. Forgive and Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, I was blown away by the response to the last chapter. Thank you so much and welcome back old and new readers. 
> 
> Again Pipsis helped a non-native-speaker. I guess some of my mistakes amuse you… Thank you, my dear!

**20\. Forgive and Forget**

"The price of a memory, is the memory of the sorrow it brings."  
― Pittacus Lore, _I Am Number Four_

 

 

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were seldom on the same page. At the beginning of their acquaintance they had not even read the same book. Now, usually one of them was one or two pages ahead of the other – sometimes consciously, sometimes not. From time to time they happened to be on the same paragraph, but somehow they could not manage to reach the end of it together (probably afraid of what was about to happen next), their attention diverted by annoying footnotes. And it would take another few chapters before they would finally end up on the same page and finish their story together. But we have not come to this point quite yet. Henceforth Molly and Sherlock were in the middle of trying to find their respective page, having lost their bookmark once again.

* * *

Molly was worried, very worried. Sherlock had not been seen since his dramatic exit. It had been two days since then. None of his friends had heard anything from him, nor had he come home at night.

On the second day Molly could not hold back anymore and had texted him if he was alright. She had not gotten a reply. She had not been able to concentrate at work, staring at her phone during her lunch break. She had tried to call him then, but he had not picked up. John had done the same thing, with the same outcome.

So you can imagine how surprised Molly was when she entered 221B and Sherlock stood by the window playing his violin. Although the pathologist dreaded the conversation that was supposed to follow, she felt relief wash over her. He was (physically) well. He had come back.

He kept playing and looking out the window while she put up her coat on the hanger. Toby ran over to greet her and circled her legs, before he curled up on John's chair again.

Molly cleared her throat and hesitantly took a few steps towards the figure by the window.

Sherlock stopped playing – in the middle of some song Molly didn't recognize – lowered the instrument and suggested, his back still turned towards her, "We should go to St Andrew's for the honeymoon."  
Molly was taken aback. This was definitely not how she had imagined him to start a conversation. A confused, "What?" was all she could muster.  
Only now did he turn around. "St Andrew's in Victoria," he clarified and smiled at her.  
Now Molly was really worried he had lost what had been left of his sanity. "Victoria, as in... Australia?" she asked, still not getting where this was leading to. If it was leading anywhere.  
He nodded, clearly glad that she had finally caught up. "That one precisely."  
"But that's on the other side of the world," she breathed.  
"It's our former convict colony." Sherlock shouldn't sound so excited about it, but Molly couldn't help but smile at that. She was still confused, no doubt about that, but the expression on his face was just endearing.  
A chuckle escaped her, "Are you planning on working during our honeymoon?"  
He grinned at her, closed the small distance between them and kissed her on the mouth. She reciprocated instinctively, but when he tried to deepen the kiss she stepped out of his embrace.

She looked at him. He did not seem angry, just a bit hurt that she had pulled back from his display of affection once more.

She took a deep breath and tried to make sense of the situation. She swallowed hard. "Sherlock, I can explain to you why..."  
He gave her a stern look and held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it." His voice did not leave any room for argument.  
"But...," Molly started to protest, but he turned away from her, walking over to the table to put his violin away.

She sighed tiredly. Sure, she did not want to have this conversation either, but they needed to talk about it. It could not be left hanging in the air between them.

So while Sherlock cleaned and then put away his violin, she came up with another approach.  
"I was worried sick," she said. It was the truth.  
He turned away from his task at hand and gave her a confused look.  
"You didn't come home last night," she clarified, anger bubbling up in her, because she had to explain herself.  
It took him only a second to reply, his voice monotone, "I thought it was better that way… for both of us."

Molly waited for him to say more, but he did not. Instead he put the violin case as well as the music sheets on the music stand away.

Then he seemed to sense that his fiancée was still staring at him, hands on her hips, a picture of disapproval. He turned his full attention on her, his stance stiff.  
"I'm not going to apologize," he said. His voice and face lacked any expression.

Molly only nodded and felt the anger take over. She knew that she was supposed to be the one to apologize, because they were responsible for his disappearance, but somehow him not demanding it from her and acting as if nothing had happened, made it all even worse. It made her feel as if she was doing him wrong by trying to help him with his condition, by keeping up this act. In that moment she felt the doubts and the bad conscious she carried with her every day hit her full force. She felt like she was about to explode. She needed a valve. So she snapped, "Sometimes I hate you."

His reaction made her even more furious, because he did not seem affected at all. If best, he sounded like she was being ridiculous, "You could never hate me. That's part of your curse."  
Molly balled her hands into fists. "Which curse?"  
"Being in love with me," he said as carelessly as if he stated that the sky was blue.  
Now Molly was so agitated that she stuttered, "I... I... You know, I've slapped you once, I will do it again."  
"No, actually you've slapped me thrice," he said matter-of-factly and turned away from her, as if that was the end of the conversation.

"You are acting weird," he accused her while walking over to his laptop. Molly almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it. In her opinion he was the one who acted as if he was out of his mind. But he probably had a right to, because he was out of his mind – even if that was not the correct medical term for his condition.

"What do you mean?" she feigned confusion, but of course she knew very well what he meant: her keeping her distance, her flinching at his touch. She had no idea how he had managed to turn the tables on her. Molly dropped her hands.

"Don't pretend to be stupid, it doesn't suit you." He glanced at her seriously.

This was the chance he gave her, to come clean, to tell him what was bothering her, why she seemed to drift away from him day by day, instead of coming closer. But Molly did not understand what he was doing, she did not understand his offer. She saw it as a threat. A threat to the complex act she was desperately trying to keep up. It would only take one light gust of wind and this whole house of cards she had built up would collapse. And that could not happen. Not until he had all of his memories back – in the right order.

"Like I've said, I was worried about you."

She knew he would not buy it and recognize it as the lame excuse it was, but she did not know what else to say.

All of a sudden she felt drained, exhausted. All her anger had evaporated, and she felt like all that was left was the empty shell of the character she tried to portray every day: Molly Elizabeth Hooper, engaged to William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Said fiancé regarded her lugubriously. He was disappointed that she refused to talk to him. He knew she was hiding something, they all were: John, Mary, Greg, Mycroft and even his fiancée. She looked just as exhausted as he felt, just as defeated.

He exhaled a long breath and then turned to his laptop. Maybe reading John's latest bog entry would take his mind off his relationship problems. If he kept talking he was afraid he would say something cruel to his fiancée and that would lead to a nasty domestic. He did not want that. He did not want to say cruel things to her, although now and then some hurtful deductions popped up in his head, and he had a hard time not letting them pass his lips. In those moments he asked himself what was wrong with him.

Molly knew that he was not going to say more on the topic. She contemplated making some tea, when she saw for the first time tonight that Sherlock had spent his time not only with violin playing but also with something entirely different. There were serviettes in different styles on the coffee table.

"Did you fold serviettes?" she asked and pointed towards his creations.  
Sherlock did not take his eyes off the screen. "Yes. I thought maybe a rose, a lily or a wedding knot. What do you think?"

Molly had to smile in spite of herself and went over to the coffee table to inspect the serviettes more closely. "Why did you do it? I thought John would take care of the serviettes," she said while picking up a rose.

She had to admit that it looked pretty. Sherlock had a talent for it. She wondered how long it had taken him to get it right. But then she remembered that Mary had told her that Sherlock had folded serviettes for their wedding as well and that he had done very well. Sherlock Holmes: Consulting detective and serviette-folder. Molly chucked at that thought. Maybe he could do a serviette-deerstalker?

"I got the impression that he does not take it seriously enough," Sherlock answered her previous question.  
"I like the rose, although the wedding knot..." Molly started, but was interrupted by an angry growl from Sherlock.  
"What's the matter?" She went back to his side and looked over his shoulder on the screen.  
Sherlock indicated towards it and complained, "John posted an unsolved case again."  
"I don't see what's so bad about that. It shows that you are a human being. People don't want to read about someone being perfect all the time. That's... boring... and unrealistic."  
"It's bad for business."  
Molly scanned the page. The title of the blog entry read _The Vanishing Umbrella_.  
"Were Mycroft or Mary Poppins somehow involved in this case?" the pathologist joked.  
It made Sherlock chuckle and it eased some of the irritation he was feeling. "No. And the title is totally misleading, for it was Mr Phillimore that had vanished and not his umbrella. I would never investigate in the case of a lost umbrella."  
"Never say never, Sherlock."  
A half smile graced his face before his expression turned thoughtful.  
"They still bother you, don't they?" Molly asked in a hushed tone, following her instinct.  
"What?"  
"The unsolved cases. You can't let them go. That's why you don't want John to write about them. They are never closed for you, until they are solved."  
"Of course not. They're unsolved. I need closure."  
"I understand." And she really did. She perfectly understood the need for closure. In that aspect Sherlock and Molly were quite similar.  
"Sometimes when I am bored or can't sleep I go back to them," he voiced out loud. "I have a wing in my mind palace for them. Fortunately they only fill a few rooms, but even one room is too much. There should not be any room in this wing. There should not be a wing dedicated to them at all."

Molly laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, "No, there should not be one, but it's there and it is part of your mind palace, part of who you are. And what's important is that you go back to them from time to time. You have not deleted them or locked them in the cellar. You won't give up. And that's what makes you a good person."

* * *

Later that evening the pair was lying in their bed. Sherlock had his arm draped over Molly's middle and was lying on his side while she was staring at the ceiling. Both were still awake.

It was not their sleeping arrangement that was bothering the pathologist – she had come to terms with it and did not feel nervous about it anymore – but the conversations they had had this evening were running through her head. She could not understand why he did not want an explanation for their _Tim from I.T.-scene_ and why he was acting as if nothing had happened. She still wondered where he had been for the last two days, but did not dare to ask him.

She went through everything he had said to her today, and when she remembered a specific sentence, she could not help but bring it up, "I know why you want to go to Australia for the honeymoon."  
She felt Sherlock shift beside her and his fingers play with a strand of her hair. "You do?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice.  
"I've read the file Mycroft gave me," she admitted sheepishly with her gaze glued to the ceiling.  
"You mean the file Mycroft gave me?" He stopped playing with her hair.

Molly could not detect if he was angry with her, so she brought up the courage to finally look him in the eyes. Although it was dark in the room, she could see enough.  
"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have… I …" She stopped, because she realized that Sherlock was looking at her with a bemused expression on his face.

She leaned up to rest on her elbows. Sherlock stayed the way he was and regarded her.  
"You've known all along. You knew I read the file. You were just teasing me!" she exclaimed and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

She felt his chuckle vibrant through her hand and had to admit that it was a sound she would never get tired of.

"Of course I knew you had read the file. You are a curious person. I would have done the same." She could definitely hear the smirk in his voice.

He reached for her and pulled her back to him, so that her head rested in his chest. At first she pretended to resist, but then settled comfortably against him, a small smile playing on her lips.

"You're my fiancée," he said in a voice that was an odd mixture between loving and warning, "there shouldn't be any secrets between us." The smile died on her lips.

For a short moment Molly Hooper had thought that she and Sherlock Holmes were on the same page, but she had been wrong. They were only a few paragraphs apart, but those felt like whole chapters right now, because there was so much space between the lines.

* * *

**A/N: So much angst, I know. But I promise the next one will be fluffier, because... It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas…**


	21. Touch has a Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There were quite a few comments on the last chapter saying, "You are killing me!" Even if you don't believe me, it is in no way my intention to be a tease. That's just what happened… I'm sorry… But keep the faith! And thanks for all your comments. They make my day! 
> 
> The Title of this chapter is taken from To- (What can I do to drive away) by John Keats. 
> 
> The way suicide is mentioned in this chapter is not meant to downplay the serious topic of self-harm and suicide. It's only mentioned once in the first paragraph. So if that's some kind of trigger for you – just skip the first paragraph. 
> 
> Thank you for your help, Pipsis! 
> 
> As usual the credit for the lines borrowed from the show goes to their respective writers.

 

**21.** **Touch has a Memory**

"I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past."  
― Virginia Woolf

 

Christmas was the season of hope, joy, charity and suicide. That was why Doctor Molly Hooper, pathologist at St Bartholomew's hospital in London, was always very busy at this time of the year. And so was her fake-fiancé Mister Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective who currently suffered from amnesia and confabulation. Statistically most couples broke up two weeks prior to Christmas and that often went hand in hand with a nasty domestic – mostly about money, ugly furniture or cheating. Therefore the consulting detective had a lot of clients during this time of the year. And this year there were even more, because now that he was a civil man, he even cared about the aesthetically challenged furniture. Sometimes.

Subsequently the pair did not see much of each other during those times, and when they did it was mostly work related (Sherlock being at the morgue or lab) or sleeping next to each other (although "seeing" is meant figuratively in this case, of course).

* * *

 

Molly was surprised when one morning – she was just getting ready for work – Sherlock suggested a Christmas party. He did not care much about the holiday, but he knew Molly did. He knew that something was bothering her, and he reckoned a Christmas party would make her happy.

Molly had not expected it, of course, but agreed. Busying herself with the organization of a Christmas party was better than thinking about the messy situation she was in. Sherlock was nagging her about the wedding dress and John about the suit on a regular basis. They all told him to take it slow. After all, it was still almost 8 months to go. On one evening he had asked her hesitantly about the wedding bands. Molly had told him that there was so much going on in her head right now and she couldn't think about that at the moment. There were things she could cope with – like table cards and serviettes – and other she couldn't. And wedding bands and a wedding dress definitely fell into latter category.

Molly had a suspicion why Sherlock tried to speed things up concerning the wedding. She felt that he was probably afraid she might change her mind. She could not blame him for thinking so. The way she sometimes behaved, she would have gotten the same impression of she were him. So a Christmas party didn't sound like a bad idea. It was a welcome excuse to busy herself with arranging it instead of the wedding.

Molly invited their friends, made fruit punch and Mrs Hudson baked gingerbread (the old lady was especially happy at the prospect of a Christmas gathering). The pair decorated the flat (Sherlock insisted on helping her, reasoning that she was too small to put up the fairy lights herself) but decided against a tree. Molly knew from experience that Toby and a tree did not get along well.

Subsequently the question of presents arose: namely a present for Sherlock. Molly had searched her brain. What should she get for Sherlock Holmes? Should she buy him anything at all? But he was her fiancé (even if only for the time being), she could not get him nothing at all, could she? This was likely the only Christmas they would spend together as a couple. Did that mean anything? Was it stupid even thinking like that? What did he want? What did he need?  
If Molly had wished for a present it would have been for Sherlock to get his memories back. But she doubted she would be granted that wish.

The question about presents went hand in hand with the question of how to proceed with their memory play _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_? A Christmas party almost screamed for a re-enactment of the last one held at Baker Street. But the last attempt had been a disaster and they all had doubts if to continue their play at all. The friends talked about it at length ("We are not sure what he remembers about the last Christmas party." "I don't think he would forgive us a second time." "He was so shocked the last time." "Maybe he needs a shock."), and in the end they decided on a compromise: They would try to evoke some memories with their presents and minor details and hope for a Christmas miracle.

* * *

 

The fairly lights were glowing, candles were light, John and Mrs Hudson were having fruit punch and Sherlock took a bite of the gingerbread. Toby was hiding in Sherlock's bedroom – he was not very fond of social gatherings. Molly was upstairs to finish dressing (Sherlock could not understand what took her so long) and Mary was with her, putting the little Miss Watson into her father's former bed.

Molly had stored the presents in John's old room, because she was under the impression that Sherlock never went up there – at least not when she was at home. She got changed there was well, because she didn't want Sherlock to see her in advance. Then she had helped Mary to put her baby to bed.

Together the two women went downstairs to join the others. Molly didn't know why, but suddenly she felt anxious. Mary noticed and squeezed her hand assuring, before she opened the door to the sitting room.

The blonde stepped inside, walking over to join her husband who was sitting in his old chair and put the baby monitor onto the coffee table. Mrs Hudson sat across in Sherlock's chair and nipped at her beverage. The landlady wore a long skirt, an elegant blouse and looked very happy. It was obvious that she enjoyed an evening with "her boys". Mary smiled fondly at her.

Finally Molly entered the room as well. She was carrying two bags – filled with the presents.  
"Hello, everyone. Sorry, for being late, hello," she said shyly.

John had to do a double take when he looked at her. He knew that she would wear the same black dress she had worn back then, but the way she had spoken and entered the room he could not shake off the feeling of déjà vu.

Her hair fell around her shoulders in lovely cascading waves and a hairpin fixed some strands behind her right ear. It was not the ridiculous bow she had worn the last time. John figured she had thrown it away at the very same night, probably while crying.

He had to admit that Molly Hooper looked very pretty.

When his fiancée entered the room, Sherlock looked surprised for a second. He had not foreseen that. He had not expected it. He swallowed and reached for his glass, which gave him an excuse to hide his face from the others. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Molly shrug (she tried to seem careless, but he could easily see that she was nervous) and go over to join the others and put the bags down.

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" she said, as John handed her a glass of fruit punch.

"Where's Greg?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to let his voice sound monotone. He was still a bit confused because of Molly's outfit.

"Lestrade," John said, putting emphasis on the name, because Sherlock calling the DI by his first name was just wrong, "spends Christmas with his wife in Dorset."  
"She's sleeping with the English teacher." Sherlock grabbed for his violin.  
"Looks like she plans on going through all subjects," John could not help from commenting.

His wife nudged him in the ribs while Mrs Hudson exclaimed, "John!"  
Still everyone chuckled. John thought that Lestrade would definitely feel like missing out, because of Molly's dress. He had appreciated the view very much back then.

Sherlock let his bow glide over the strings a few times; more for himself than for the others. He wanted to clear his thoughts. It felt like his mind was swimming. He blinked a few times, because he felt a bit dizzy.

"Why don't you play a carol, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson prompted.  
The man in question turned from his place at the window to the others and smiled, but everyone could see that it was clearly forced. Still he started to play.

* * *

 

After a few more glasses of fruit punch and another carol (Sherlock still refused to wear the antlers), the consulting detective felt quite well again. The dizziness was gone and the funny feeling in his mind as well. He still felt something akin to a slumbering headache in the back of his skull, but since he had been attacked this had become his constant companion. He had learned to ignore it. More or less.

"So, Molly, what about those presents in your bags?" he said and gestured towards said objects.  
Molly looked at it as if she had completely forgotten about them. "Those are for you," she said before thinking.  
Sherlock smirked. "No. The presents in the bag to your right are for Greg, Meena, Mrs Hudson and Toby – albeit I don't see why a cat would care about Christmas presents. The ones in the other bag are for John, Mary and the baby. Only the present on top of the bag that's wrapped with a bow is mine."

Suddenly the room fell silent. Molly watched Sherlock approach, as he picked something up from the table.

"Y..Y...Yes, you're right," Molly stammered. She slapped herself mentally that he still had the power to do this to her.

He stopped just a few inches away from her and handed her a perfectly wrapped present with a red bow. Molly's mouth was dry, and she felt the eyes of the others on her.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow as if asking her why she wouldn't take it.

She gave herself a mental push and reached for it with shaking hands. She turned the tag and read the greeting that was written in red ink:

_Dearest Molly  
Love Sherlock xxx _

Molly almost dropped the present and looked stricken.

Of course that did not escape Sherlock's attention.  
"Molly?" The concern was evident in his voice.  
She swallowed hard. Unsure how to respond she opted for the noncommittal and only nodded.  
"Go ahead, open it," he urged.

The other people in the room looked helplessly at each other, not knowing what to expect, but ready to save Molly if needed.

In the back of her mind she registered that he had signed with "Sherlock" and not with "William." With trembling fingers Molly got rid of the wrapping paper. Underneath it was a black velvet box – jewellery obviously. She reminded herself that it couldn't get worse than an engagement ring, so she slowly opened the box. It contained the most beautiful sapphire earrings Molly had ever seen. She did not care that her mouth opened and closed a few times and that she probably looked like a goldfish.

Slowly she took her eyes off the jewellery and looked at Sherlock. She could not help but smile fondly at his expression. He looked so uncertain, nervous almost.  
"Do you like them?" he asked.  
She had to clear her throat before she could answer, her mouth still felt dry. "Are you kidding, Sherlock? They are beautiful!"

Mary took a step closer to have a look at the present as well. She had to agree, the earrings were gorgeous.

Sherlock's face lit up, and he scratched his neck when he explained, "I know it's not a blue carbuncle, but I thought it was time to start with the four most important things. So this is the first one. Actually it's two."  
Molly gave him a quizzical look.  
Sherlock went on, "It's something blue – obviously. And something old. The earrings belonged to my grandmother."  
Molly's eyes widened, and she started to feel dizzy.

Her fiancé seemed oblivious to her state and kept on speaking, "I know blue earrings are not really suitable for a wedding, but I thought they would look good with the dress you wore at the Rucastles."

Again Molly looked at the box in her hand.

"As I've said before, this is only the first part of four. But I wanted to have something left for your birthday and the wedding day, of course."

Molly gazed back at him. She felt overwhelmed. This was so much more than she had expected. To be honest she hadn't expected anything at all. She had just hoped that the evening would go better than the last Christmas they had spent together.

Slowly the dizziness ebbed away, but she still felt light-headed. Sherlock didn't know that this present was more than two in one; it was three in one: It was not only something old and blue, but also something borrowed, for she would have to give it back to him once this was over and she was not his fiancée anymore. That thought made her cringe. She did not want to think about what the future had in store. She wanted to enjoy the present.

She realized that her inner monologue had probably taken longer than she had thought and that Sherlock was still staring at her, waiting for her to say something. But she didn't know what. She had no idea how to phrase everything she was feeling right now. Especially because she could not tell him most of it.

So instead of making a fool of herself by saying the wrong thing, she made herself a Christmas present and indulged in standing on tip toe, binging Sherlock's head down to her level and kissing him. Since he had lost part of his memory she had always been at guard when kissing him. She had never let herself enjoy it, because she knew it was not real. But now, she gave into her feelings and did not hold back. She let herself feel all the bliss and excitement their touch evoked. And from the way Sherlock smiled against her lips, he felt it too.

After they broke the kiss, Molly remembered that they were not alone. The other three had tried their best to make themselves invisible, not wanting to interrupt the display of affection they had just witnessed. And to be honest, they were also a bit shocked by it. Seeing Sherlock holding Molly's hand or giving her a quick peck on the lips was something entirely different than... this.

John was the first to break the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat, "I guess you have a present for Sherlock as well, Molly?"

That brought Molly out of her stupor. "Yes, yes, of course I do."

She put her present onto the coffee table and took the package that Sherlock had rightly deduced was for him, from the top if the bag and handed it to her flatmate.

He grinned at her like a child. This year she had not bothered with a tag or a greeting. It would have hit too close to home.

Unceremoniously Sherlock ripped the paper from the present. Although he had already deduced that it contained an envelope, he was surprised when he read the card it contained:

_Dearest Sherlock_  
Fancy some chips? Because I know a fantastic chip shop just off the Marylebone Road ;-)  
Molly xxx

His eyes narrowed while reading and Molly started to get a bad feeling. Maybe this had not been a good idea? Maybe she had gone too far? Maybe she had not been as clever as she had thought?

John saw too that something was off and took a hesitant step closer to the couple. Just in case he needed to safe the situation. He had no idea which situation or how, but he was good at improvising. Life with Sherlock meant improvising on a daily basis.

Mary stood behind him, also ready to help in case she was needed.

"Is this..." Sherlock's voice trailed off and he looked inquiringly at Molly.  
"It's a voucher," she explained, "for dinner."  
"For dinner?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, searching her face.

Suddenly he felt lightheaded again, and he could not shake off the funny feeling of déjà vu. The words on the card danced in front of his eyes.

Molly did not understand what he was insinuating. "Yeah, for fish and chips."  
The weary look left Sherlock's face and instead a smile started to form. "Just off the Marylebone Road, hm?"  
"Yes."  
There was a twinkle in his eyes. "You know there's a restaurant where I always get extra portions?"

Now Molly relaxed and so did John beside her. She smiled as well and mimicked Sherlock's teasing tone, "Why? Did you help the owner to put up some shelves?"  
Sherlock's mouth was clearly faster than his brain this time, "No, I… actually yes."

* * *

 

They all exchanged the rest of the gifts, Sherlock played some more carols, they wore paper crowns (Mrs Hudson could convince Sherlock to do it as well) and had Christmas crackers. It was a lovely evening for all of them. Sometime after midnight, the Watsons said their goodbye. Mrs Hudson had already retreated downstairs a bit earlier.

Molly was just finishing the washing up, Sherlock doing the drying (yes, this Sherlock was sometimes helpful in the kitchen – when she forced him) when he said, "I admit I was surprised you chose that dress." He gestured towards her form next to him.

Molly froze in her action of turning off the faucet. "You remember the dress?"  
"How could I forget you in that dress?" He smirked.  
Molly then turned off the faucet and said in a careful neutral tone although she was blushing, "Your mind was occupied with other things at the time."

Sherlock put away the dish he had been drying and reached for another one. He left her statement uncommented.

"You have not worn it again since then. I would not have thought you'd wear it tonight, after all those horrible things I've said to you then."  
Her eyes drop straight to the floor. "It's okay. You said you were sorry."  
"No, it's not okay." His voice was stern.  
He waited for her to look back up at him and then said with remorse, "You deserve nice words."

Under different circumstances Molly would have melted at such a line, but now she felt panic rising inside her. Her flight instinct set in, and she turned to leave for the bathroom, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist. His grip was gentle but firm, letting her know that he was not about to let her go, until he wanted to.

"I deleted the text feed on my phone and I gave her phone to Mycroft."

Of all the things she had expected him to say she would have never come up with that. There was no need to specify which phone he meant. There had only been one camera phone of a woman that was not her in the flat; of The Woman.

Slowly Molly looked from his grip on her wrist into his eyes "Why?" she asked in a hushed tone, as if fearing the answer.

"The past is the past. Why hold on to it?" He looked at her, approval and affection swimming in his gaze.

And for a fleeting moment Molly could almost believe that things were going to turn out alright.


	22. Mind Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've never had the intention of doing a flashback of the scene in which Sherlock rescues Molly when I started writing this story. I've just included that bit of information because I thought it was a source of conflict and added substance to the back-story. But as it turned out, a shockingly large number of people told me they were looking forward to said scene. And since I hate to disappoint someone, here I am providing aforementioned flashback. I hope it meets your expectations. I know the quote is quite long, but I just thought it fit so well… 
> 
> One of my faithful reviewers (giddyfan) got a (wonderful) blog of her own now. Check it out: giddyfan .wordpress. com
> 
> Thank you Pipsis for helping me and liking this monster of a quote ;-)

**22\. Mind Palace**

"The time is ripe for looking back over the day, the week, the year, and trying to figure out where we have come from and where we are going to, for sifting through the things we have done and the things we have left undone for a clue to who we are and who, for better or worse, we are becoming. But again and again we avoid the long thoughts….We cling to the present out of wariness of the past. And why not, after all? We get confused. We need such escape as we can find. But there is a deeper need yet, I think, and that is the need—not all the time, surely, but from time to time—to enter that still room within us all where the past lives on as a part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves to turnings and to where our journeys have brought us. The name of the room is Remember—the room where with patience, with charity, with quietness of heart, we remember consciously to remember the lives we have lived."  
― Frederick Buechner, _A Room Called Remember: Uncollected Pieces_

 

The Mind Palace is his sanctuary, his home from home, his safe haven; the one place where he is in control of everything. That is good, because he hates not being in control. Not being in control equals chaos and that is to be avoided under any circumstances.

There is room for everything and everyone he classifies as relevant in his life. John has once made fun of him because he calls it "palace" and not "bungalow". But contra to the opinion of his best friend, it is not a palace because his ego demands it to be, but because filing away all the facts that he deems necessary for his work needs space. The information of the cases he has solved alone takes up an entire wing. And it is a constant work in progress; a work that he enjoys. Being the architect of his mind is one of the most satisfying occupations for him. And his structure is not only helpful for his profession as a consulting detective, but it is also important for his salvation. No matter what the world throws at him, as long as he can come back to his Mind Palace, everything will turn out all right in the end. And that is why his current situation is so... confusing... so... daunting. Yes, the doctors have told him that mixing up minor details and periods of confusion or light-headedness were to be expected after a head trauma, but he has thought he would be past that stage now.

Since his head trauma, it seemed like not only the world around him did not make sense anymore, but his Mind Palace did not either. It is true what he said to Molly and John in the hospital that he does not miss any rooms, but some rooms have swapped places, there are dead ends where there have not been any before and rooms suddenly don't have windows anymore or information is stored somewhere else. He gets lost on a regular basis. He has never been lost in there before. It is his Mind Palace. It should be impossible for him to get lost there.

Not only the locations of some rooms have swapped places (without his conscious doing), but the rooms themselves have changed. That itself is not out of the ordinary, because rooms get bigger or change their colour or furniture, depending on new gathered information. For instance, John's room has undergone a dramatic change from the first time they have met until today. It has grown from a cabinet in the basement (someone to help pay the rent and learn to tolerate) to a cosy, wide sitting room on the first floor.

But what bothers him is the unusual amount of change Molly Hooper's room has undergone. He cannot pinpoint how, when and why. It feels... wrong. Not the room per se. He likes Molly's room, but it feels wrong that he does not remember redecorating it. He cannot recall how the change has happened and what exactly has changed. It has moved onto the same floor as John's room (he remembers that happening about the same time as the fall), but it has become the biggest room in the whole palace, and he does not have the slightest clue when and how that has happened. Sure, she is his fiancée, thus it was only logical that her room would be the biggest, but... There is this nagging thought that the change of the room is the key to something crucial and important. But what that something is, is an impenetrably mystery to him. He is desperate to solve that mystery. So he goes through the corridors of his mind, from room to room in search of the clue that will tell him what is going on; why his Mind Palace seems to have developed a life of its own.

He starts in the duplicate of the lab of St Bart's – reasoning that this is where his acquaintance with Molly has begun - but does not find anything. He goes on to the morgue, but ends up in Greg's room. Obviously the morgue has swapped places with another room as well. Also the labelling of Greg's room seems wrong. He is sure it has been named differently at some point.

He goes on in search for the morgue and after opening the next door, he stops dead in his tracks. He is in another room that has not been there before. It takes him a moment to recognize it, and when he does, he asks himself why that room exists in the first place.  
He is standing in a room at the Yard, to be precise: In the room behind the one-way mirror next to the interrogation room. He sees familiar features out of the corners of his eyes and turns to look through the mirror. At once he knows which scene from his past he is witnessing and understands why his mind has created that room: He sees Molly giving her statement at the Yard after her abduction. He can see her lips moving, but he cannot hear what she is saying. Someone is sitting across the table from her, but the figure is blurred, so Sherlock can only guess it is probably Greg Lestrade. He has not stored that bit of information.  
He stands there for a moment and looks at her. Her face is pale, her left eye and cheek are bruised and her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks like a frightened animal, small and vulnerable. He feels angry, protective of her and helpless. He wants to go into the interrogation room to comfort her, to give her strength, but he can't. He realizes with horror that the room he is standing in has no doors anymore. He can't go to her. Why not? He is not of any help for her in here. She does not even know that he is there. He wants her to know that he is here. That he has not left her, that she is not alone. His eyes and hands search for a door, an exit, a window, anything to get to her, on every wall. But still nothing. He is surrounded by three black concrete walls. He turns to look at her again. And suddenly she lifts her head and stares right at him through the mirror. He knows she cannot see him, but somehow he is sure that she knows that he is there. She gives him a faint smile and then his surroundings begin to blur.

He finds himself in the wing where his cases are stored – the solved cases. He wonders why his mind has brought him here. This is not where he will find the solution to the mystery of Molly's room. But obviously his mind is playing tricks on him again.

He walks down the corridor lined with wooden doors. He glances at some doors in passing. He recognizes all of them, knows what's behind _The Sussex Vampire_ or _The Devil's Foot._ He pauses a moment as he notes that John seems to have an even greater influence on him than he has thought so far, because the way his mind has labelled the cases sound a lot like his best friend would title them on his blog – way too sensational. At least the rooms in this part of his Mind Palace are still where they belong.

Sherlock quickens his pace. Why is he here? He gets faster, because he feels like time is running out. He knows he comes closer to the room. The one room he has not opened for some time now. The room he hopes will remain locked forever. But why is he running towards this room?

He stops. He is standing in front of the door. He knows the round padded cell that lies behind it all too well. He knows the smell, the way the panelling feels when he touches it, the coldness of the concrete floor. He knows its inhabitant; the good old-fashioned villain.

And all of a sudden there is another door next to it. Sherlock cannot remember that he has seen it before. It has not existed the last time he has been here. He knows that this is the room he has to get into. Now. Before it's too late.  
With urgent desperation he pushes the door open. He does not remember designing this room, but the moment he steps inside he knows exactly what memory is stored there. One that he will never forget: The day he rescued Molly Hooper.

He had been stupid. So stupid. The solution has been right under his nose the whole time – she has been. She has been held within a stone's throw from 221B – too close to even consider this possibility. He wants to slap himself in hindsight for his myopia. When finally the penny drops he calls John and Greg, but only when he is already in front of the door. He knows the abductor wants him. This is personal. The man is already waiting for him and asking him what has taken the consulting detective so long. The man is tall and has a bandage over his nose. Sherlock remains calm and detached on the outside, but inside he is raging. He does not only want to kill the man who has taken her, he wants to torture him, make him suffer – as long as possible, in the cruellest way possible. That is why he has called the police – for self-preservation.

The captor is not dull, but he is too self-opinionated. He has not expected that Sherlock would call the Yard. Bad luck for him, because he is killed by a bullet.

The moment the man falls lifeless onto the floor, Sherlock storms through the door to the adjoining room where he has deduced Molly is held hostage. He hears John and the police enter the room behind him, but he does not pay attention. All that is on his mind is the well-being of the woman that huddles in the corner of the room.

When she hears someone enter, she looks up with a startled expression, her eyes wide with fear, but also with a bitter determination. She refuses to let her kidnapper break her. The left side of her face is swollen, her clothes are dirty – the bright cherry jumper doesn't look bright anymore. But the moment she recognizes him, her face lights up.

She gets up – steadying herself with one hand against the wall while doing so – and takes a step towards him.

Without thinking, he closes the distance between them. With a few long strides he is in front of her and wraps her in his arms. He feels her go rigid for a second, before her small arms go around his torso under his coat. He presses her face close to his chest, for a moment not thinking that doing so might hurt her bruised cheek. But if so, she does not show it.  
He closes his eyes and lets the feelings wash over him: anxiety, joy, nervousness, confusion, exhaustion, something he does not dare to name and most of all relief.

He feels his shirt become wet where her face touches it, and he realizes she must be crying. He gently touches her shoulders which makes her lift her head. Tears are streaming down her face.  
"You found me," she says as if she has doubted he would be looking for her.  
"Of course," he says, trying to convey that he would have gone to the ends of the earth to find her.  
She gives him a faint smile and wipes her face with the back of her hand while she takes a step away from him, and he feels cold without her touch.

He looks closer at her: Her clothes are rumpled, her hair is greasy and her eyes puffy. But it does not matter. What matters is that he has her back and that she is safe now.  
"You broke his nose," he says with a hint of amusement in his voice, meaning her abductor.  
"I defended myself."  
He is so proud of her.

Again he studies the bruises on her face and feels rage bubbling up inside him. If the police had not been there he would have... He has thought about not calling them, about dealing with the man that has taken her himself. But he has decided against it. His judgement has been clouded by emotions. His judgement is clouded by emotions. An uneasiness takes hold of him. He turns around towards the men behind him and barks, "Doctor Hooper is in shock. Get her a blanket!"  
John gives him a funny look that he does not dare to interpret.

He turns his attention back to Molly who looks shy all of a sudden and bites her lip.  
He wants to reach out to her, but something keeps him from doing so. He feels ... embarrassed.

Before he can decide how to proceed, a paramedic is at their side and lays a blanket over Molly's shoulder. It is so big that it looks like she is drowning in it. She folds it around herself and that is when he sees it: The fourth finger on her left hand is empty. There is no engagement ring. His ring. Her ring. The band that tells the world that she is his.

His vision becomes blurry again. He tries to look at her face once more, but the image of Molly disappears. She slowly fades away. He reaches for her hand, but grabs into nothingness. His breathing becomes laboured and his chest feels tight. Why is there no ring on her finger? He knows that they have already been engaged when she was taken hostage. He knows it for a fact. His heart races.

He needs to find it. He needs to find the room. The room where the memory of him proposing is stored. It must be somewhere near Molly's room. Somewhere between his and hers.

He runs down the staircase that leads to the wing where Molly's room is. But he cannot find it. There is only an endless corridor, but there are no doors. He spins around. His head hurts, a pounding headache.

He hurries into the other direction. Nothing. Where is he? He is lost. He wants to scream. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He feels hot and cold and sweat on his forehead. His head feels empty – just like Billy's. Why is he thinking of Billy now? Because of Molly. But where is she? Where is her room? The memory of him proposing – he must find it. He needs assurance that it has happened, that he is not losing his mind. He needs proof. All he needs now is this memory, just this one.

With a sharp intake of breath he flashes back to reality and finds himself face to face with his fiancée, who is holding his face in both of her hands and stares at him wide-eyed. He instantly searches her fourth finger for the engagement ring, and when he finds it on its rightful place, his heart instantly grows lighter despite the darkness of his thoughts. She will be able to provide the proof he needs and bring some light into the darkness, for she would never forget how he proposed to her. She would have remembered for both of them.


	23. Please let me keep this Memory, just this One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am horrible at accepting a compliment and your response to the last chapter left me… I was so overwhelmed, seriously! Thank you! 
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Likingthistoomuch, because she always leaves some sweet words that make me smile. Always ;-) 
> 
> Thank you to my beta Pipsis! 
> 
> The title is a quote from the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

__

**23.** **Please let me keep this Memory, just this One**

"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!  
The world forgetting, by the world forgot  
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!  
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd." _  
-_ Alexander Pope, _Eloisa to Abelard_ **Eloisa to Abelard**

 

 

Finally she had managed to shake him awake. Sherlock had had a nightmare – or so she thought – and had tossed and turned in bed. Then he had cried out as if in agony, and finally he had called her name. She had shaken him so violent by the shoulders that she had been afraid, if he would not wake up any moment, she would have no other choice than to slap him. But then it had worked. He had shot bolt upright and opened his eyes, staring at her, as if he thought she had appeared out of thin air. Then his eyes had been fixed on the engagement ring.  
"Sherlock?" she whispered hesitantly.  
In the darkness of the room, she could not make out much more than the contour of his face. She reached for the bed stand and switched on the lamp. The room was bathed into a warm glow.  
She looked over to the man beside her, who sat there unmoving, like a statue. The only indicators that he was not one were the cold sweat on his forehead and the movement of his chest, expanding with heavy breaths.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" She knew it was a stupid question, because he was not alright, obviously, but his behaviour made her anxious.

His eyes darted around the room, as if trying to orient himself. Then they settled on her and he blinked a few times. With a speed she would not have given him credit for in his momentary state, he snatched her hand and squeezed it so hard that it almost hurt her. Still she tried not to cringe. She knew he would never hurt her on purpose.

"I could not find it." There's a tremor in his voice and his eyes were a swirling pool of emotions.

Never before had she seen him like that. It scared her. But she knew she could not let him see that.

With her right hand she slowly reached to touch his shoulder. She acted as if she was dealing with a wounded animal. She did not want to scare him away.  
"You were having a nightmare, Sherlock." She calmed him in a soothing tone, but the concern was evident in her voice.

He violently shook his head, and her hand fell off his shoulder, hanging useless at her side. "No, no! I was in my Mind Palace. And it was not there!"

His breathing became more erratic and Molly feared he might start to hyperventilate. His eyes darted around the room once more, as if the thing he had been looking for in his mind palace could be hid somewhere here.

Molly tried to get him to focus. "Sherlock, what was not there? Some clue, some evidence?" Molly figured that most of Sherlock's mind palace was packed with case-relevant information.  
His breathing did not slow down, but at least he looked at her again.  
"You did not wear your ring."  
She had never heard his voice so small and felt a wave of panic wash over her as well. So this was obviously not case-related. It was related to her. She squeezed his hand that was still holding her in a tight grip, as if letting her go would mean he'd lose the last bit of his sanity.

"I can't help you if you won't tell me what happened, so we need to focus."  
His eyes widened at her words and he leaned away from her, as if expecting her to slap him.  
Molly's voice was intense, when she repeated, "I said focus."  
Sherlock gave her a bewildered look, and then suddenly she could see his breathing slow down a bit. He took a few deliberate breaths, and she felt the grip on her hand loosen a bit.

"Good," she nodded slowly and gently touched his arm with her right hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he reopened them, they were still full of confusion, but more focused than before.  
"I was wandering through my Mind Palace, looking for... something," he began. His voice was low, but controlled. "Some things have changed there since... I've been attacked. I went into the room where I keep the memory from the day when you were rescued."

Molly bit her lip while she listened to him in nervous anticipation and felt her heart began to speed up its pace. She did not even have time to process how surprised she was that Sherlock had a room where he had stored this memory. She became afraid of where this was going. The day she had been rescued – by him. She would never forget that day. It had changed everything, yet nothing at all.

Sherlock continued, "I saw you standing there with the giant shock blanket draped over your shoulder, like it was swallowing you. Your gripped it so tight. And then my eyes fell onto your left hand."

He made a pause and took a quivering breath. Molly did the same. She knew what was coming. Yet still she had to shut her eyes the moment he said it, "You did not wear your ring." His voice was almost inaudible.

She asked herself, if maybe when she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, she would wake up and realize that she had been the one having a nightmare.

But Sherlock's voice shattered that illusion, "Why did you not wear your engagement ring, Molly?"

So she opened her eyes again. When she looked at him she noticed how distinct his eyelashes were against the pale translucence of his eyes. He regarded her, demanding her to explain it to him. She did not know what to say, naturally. At least now she had the answer to the question if he thought they had already been engaged when she had been taken hostage. Molly remained silent.

He took hold of her other hand as well, and his tone gained urgency when he went on, "I went to look for the room with the memory of me proposing, but..." his voice became louder, as if he was frustrated and angry with himself, "... but I could not find it. It was gone!"

Molly saw his breathing speed up again. It was as if he was obsessed and depressed at the same time. She was worried he might get another, more severe panic attack. She needed to do something to calm him down. She needed to assure him that the memory was not gone. But she did not know how to do that with a memory that had never existed in the first place.

Sherlock tugged at her hands, as if trying to get her attention again, "Molly, why?"  
She was not sure if he meant why she had not worn the ring, or why he did not find this one particular memory. But it did not matter to her. She could not tell him the truth in both cases.

She knew she could not stay silent any longer.  
She cleared her throat, "Sherlock, I was at Bart's when I was abducted, remember? I can't wear the ring while I'm working. It was in my locker. That's why I didn't wear it that day."  
She was quite proud of herself for coming up with such a logical explanation, and she hoped that he would buy it, that this would settle it and he would be satisfied by her answer. He would shake his head, grace her with a half smile, wrap her in his arms and they would go back to sleep.

He did shake his head, but the rest did not happen as planned. He frowned. "I know you were taken at Bart's..." he voice trailed off.  
She could see that he was searching his brain for the rest of the facts she had presented him. His breathing had slowed down considerably, but his body was still tense.

Molly could not dare to imagine the feelings he underwent. She looked into his eyes, but had the feeling he was not even there.

After a few moments – that felt like an eternity to her – he focused on her again. "I see," he said.

Molly's lips twitched, in an attempt at a nervous smile, but then he suddenly looked so tormented that sadness washed over her face and it was hard to tell if it was for him or her.

"But the proposal, how could I forget about that? How?" He sounded utterly lost.

Once more he gripped her hands tighter and pulled her closer. For some reason, even though they were touching, he felt so far away.

"Tell me, Molly! How did I propose?" he demanded.  
Again Molly closed her eyes. She could not stand looking into his. She knew there was only one thing to calm him down. Everything inside her rebelled against the thought of it. It would be another lie, another prevarication.  
"Molly?" His voice was laced with worry.

She directed her gaze away from him. She acted, as if she was remembering, when in reality she desperately tried to make something up. She had to invent yet another memory. One she had sometimes fantasised about, but had known that it would never come true, and now it was up to her to make it reality: Sherlock Holmes proposing to Molly Hooper. Through her lies an impossible fantasy would become a memory; part of their history.

She took a deep breath and started to paint him a picture with her words, "You know how I always complain about you storing body parts and food side by side in the fridge?"  
He nodded slowly. His eyes looked intently at her, and she knew he was hanging on her words.

She held his gaze and went on, "Well, I had lectured you about it one day before I went to work. I was quite mad at you and told you that I expected your experiments to be gone by the time I came home in the evening. So when I did, I asked you if you had done what I had asked you to, but you pretended to be in your mind palace. I went to the fridge to have a look myself. I went furious when I saw that the fingers were still next to the tomatoes. And just when I was about to reach for them to throw them into the bin, I saw something that had not been there in the morning and was neither a body part, nor food. It was a blue velvet box. I reached for it and opened it with trembling fingers. I guess my eyes were as big as saucers when I stared at it, and my heart beat wildly in my chest. I jumped when I heard your voice right behind me, asking me if I liked it."

She swallowed hard and watched Sherlock watching her. She desperately hoped he would buy it. That he would think he would propose to her like that. That this was the way it had happened. He was an astute student of people and if he would detect her lie...

His question caught her off guard, "And then?"  
She frowned and parroted, "And then?"  
He shrugged, "Well, what happened then?"  
She almost chucked, had she not felt so desperate. "I answered in the affirmative. Well, I nodded, because I was quite speechless and then I started to cry."  
"You started to cry?" he asked shocked.  
"I was so happy," she explained. "I hugged you and then you asked me if that was a 'yes', and I told you that it was."  
"And then I slipped the ring onto your finger and kissed you?" he finished with a questioning tone.  
"Yes," Molly answered. She did not see any reason why she should have contradicted him.

He tilted his head to the side and regarded her once more. He was stroking her knuckles with his thumb, and Molly could not tell if the gesture was smoothing or stirred her up. Maybe a bit of both.

Her chest felt tight and her mouth dry. She had lied to him again. She told herself that it was for the greater good, but somehow she could not bring herself to believe it. She knew that when he would regain his memories, her words would have left permanent scars. When she had told him about his proposal she had tried to remember how she had felt when she had seen the engagement ring he had given her for the case, the excitement, the nervousness, the hope she had felt. She had tried to block out the anxiety, the sense of foreboding and the fear.

Finally he seemed to have found what he had been looking for in her face, because he scooted closer to her, their faces only inches apart.  
"I am sorry I forgot," he whispered with remorse and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  
"It's okay, it's fine" she assured him in the same hushed tone, albeit she was about as far from fine right now as she could have been.

One hand travelled over her engagement ring, as if making sure it was still there and the other came to rest on her neck while he pulled her close and gently brushed his lips against hers. She didn't even pretend to resist. Molly could feel him trying to convey his gratefulness into the kiss. He was thankful that she was not mad at him for forgetting something so important in their relationship like the proposal. Molly reciprocated, but felt like crying at his gentle caress. It made her doing feel even more like a betrayal.

Sherlock pulled back and rested his forehead against hers for a moment. He seemed to gather his thoughts and to store the new gained memory into Molly's room in his Mind Palace. Then he laid back down again.

Molly stayed silent and switched the light off. Sherlock pulled her towards him, gave her a kiss on the crown of her head and fell asleep within a few minutes.

Careful as not to wake him, Molly extracted herself from his embrace and turned to her side of the bed. She huddled on the far end of it, her back towards him and silently let the tears fall. Sometimes she wished she was the one who had forgotten.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter… It took me ages to come up with a scenario of Sherlock proposing I felt comfortable with. I hope you found it fitting.**


	24. Forget me not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, thank you all for being so wonderful! 
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to one of my faithful reviewers Icecat62, because in her Review of Chapter 12 (long time ago…) she mentioned that she would find it funny if Sherlock begged for a dog. My eyes got as big as saucers when I read it, because I had already finished the whole story and… You will see what I mean. Obviously Icecat62 can predict the future or is a telepath. 
> 
> I have to say it again: Pipsis, you are the best! 
> 
> As usual the credit for the lines I borrowed from the show goes to their respective writers.

**24\. Forget me not**

"Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man's memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull."  
― Mark Lawrence, _King of Thorns_

 

Sherlock Holmes had had a lot on his mind lately. Well, he had always had a busy mind – sometimes so busy that he had trouble sleeping and that it was in need of constant exercise. But usually his thoughts circled around a case or an experiment, but in the last couple of weeks the problem that had been bothering him, had been of a more private nature. Sure, he was still on the Rucastle case, but since there had not been any new evidence, he was stuck. Therefore he had had time to think about other... stuff... relationship stuff. Namely the curious behaviour of his fiancée.

Granted, Molly had always been... different, but so was he. That was one of the reasons he thought she was perfect for him – they were both extraordinary people who were sometimes misunderstood by the rest of the world.

But since he had come home from hospital, his fiancée had acted more and more odd. She would not talk about the wedding, she would flinch when he touched her, she let him take her hand or embrace her, but never initiated physical contact herself. It still bothered him that she did not want to have intercourse with him. He did not doubt her saying that they had agreed on not having sex before the wedding, yet still it stroke him as odd. Molly had always found him attractive (even before they had been together). He had seen her stare at him in an approving way more than once in the morgue when she thought he would not notice. Then why did she not want to have sex with him?  
When he kissed her, he had the feeling she desperately wanted to be somewhere else, or was thinking of someone else. The only time he felt like she had been in the moment had been at Christmas. Because that kiss had felt real.

Apparently the first obvious conclusion would be that she was cheating on him. But first of all, Sherlock knew for a fact that Molly Hooper would never cheat on him and secondly he was the only consulting detective in the world. He would have deduced it if she had had an affair.

He felt her retreat from him, like she was slowly drifting away and he did not know what to do about that. He had never been exceptionally good at talking about his feelings, and every time he had tried to ask her what was bothering her, she had changed the subject or waved it off. He could see that she was unhappy, and he did not want her to be.

Additionally some memories in his Mind Palace left him confused. Like when he remembered rescuing Molly from her abductor. He had embraced her and held her, but why had he not kissed her? Why had he felt so uneasy all of a sudden? Why had he felt embarrassed, almost ashamed? Why had he retreated from her? Why had he left her alone in the interrogation room? Why had he turned his back on her? This was not how a devoted fiancé was supposed to behave. Maybe they had had a domestic he could not remember? But even if… Maybe, maybe, maybe, ... He was sick and tired of all this speculation. He did not speculate. He observed and deduced, but that had proven to be fruitless in this case. So he had decided to try another approach.

He stood by the window, staring outside with his hands clasped behind his back when he heard her enter. She had been in a rush to come here, he noticed. She was slightly out of breath.  
"You wanted to see me?" she asked, trying to get his attention.  
He turned around and smiled at her. "Yes." He started to walk towards her, "Molly?"  
"Yes?"  
She seemed a bit nervous, not knowing why he had texted her to come. He could see that she was worried. He stopped and looked down for a second, gathering his thoughts. Somehow this conversation felt weird, like a déjà vu. He looked back up at her.

There she stood in the doorway, looking uncertain, biting her lip in a blouse that was too bright and a hideous jumper. A pink and black striped scarf was loosely tied around her neck – she had been in a hurry when she had done it. He had to smile. You could always rely on Molly's lack of aesthetic consideration.

He resumed walking towards her slowly, cleared his throat and asked, "Would you like to..."  
"... solve crimes?" Molly finished the sentence simultaneously while he was saying, "... have dinner?"

Both stared at each other for a moment, looking taken aback.  
Molly shook her head as if to clear it and was the first to find her voice again. "Why would you want to have dinner with me?"  
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and frowned, "Are you serious?"  
She only shrugged uncertain.  
"Do I need a reason for taking my fiancée to dinner?"  
"Yes, I mean... No. It's just... We've never had dinner before, I mean, at a restaurant."  
She was nervously rambling and it reminded him of a time when she could not sting together a single sentence in his presence that was not about citing her findings of an autopsy. Those days were gone. But every now and then she seemed to relapse when she was extremely nervous or uncertain. He did not understand why him asking her out to dinner was such an occasion. He did not mean dinner. Just dinner. And even if, he was quite sure Molly would not know about the double meaning.

"I'd like to redeem your voucher from Christmas. It was an invitation to dinner, remember?"  
"Yes, I remember." She looked down unto her shuffling feet and nestled with the seam of her scarf.

Sherlock took another step, but remained out of her personal space. He did not want her to feel cornered, but he had to tell her. Things could not go on like that between them. This was not what he wanted.

Slowly he put his forefinger under her chin and lifted her head, so that she had no other choice but to look at him. He could feel that she wanted to resist, but she let it happen. Her brown eyes were wide, as if she was afraid of what he would want from her.  
"I do see it, you know," he said in a serious but suave tone.  
"What do you mean?" Her eyes grew even wider which made her look startled, and he let his hand sink to his side.  
"At first I was angry, because you really thought you could get away with it."  
Molly started to have a bad feeling. A really bad feeling. She swallowed hard. It did not escape his perceptive gaze.  
"You thought I would not notice, I would not observe, I could not deduce it. But of course I did."

Her heart clenched. She was surprised that he was so calm about it. She had expected him to shout at her, to insult her and maybe even hate her. She had prepared herself for the worst. But just like everything else that had happened since that fateful night at the Rucastle's, it was totally different from what she had expected.

"I gave you a chance to explain yourself when I asked you why you were acting weird, but you chose not to. I won't deny that I was disappointed. I thought you trusted me."  
"I do ...," she tried to interject, but he interrupted her, "Obviously not as much as I thought. So I think we should sit down, have dinner and talk about it." His tone was reasonable and controlled, although he did not feel like in control at all. He felt like he had lost control the moment his head had collided with that darn marble table.

"About..." Molly squeaked.  
"About the reason why you don't trust me. Why you keep things from me. One needn't be me to see the signs and figure it out." He sounded lugubrious.

"Sherlock, I..."

He held up a hand. "At dinner, not now. At the moment I need you to help me with a serious decision, which should have been made weeks ago, but I happened to find out that it hadn't."

He went over to the coffee table, motioned her to join him and opened something that looked like a catalogue.

For a second Molly remained transfixed by the spot. Her mind was running wild. He wanted to talk to her, but not now. Why? How?

Sherlock looked at her over his shoulder, asking her with his expression why she was still standing at the door. She gave herself a mental push and joined him at the table.

She followed the line of his finger and got even more confused when she realized what this was all about.  
"The cake?!" she exclaimed, staring at the pictures of delicious looking pastry Sherlock was presenting her.  
"You dragged me away from work because of some cake?" She could not believe his nerve.  
"Not some cake, our wedding cake!" He sounded a bit angry.

Molly sighed and drew a hand over her face. She felt like she was getting a headache.

"Sherlock, you said in your text it was extremely important."

The moment she had finished her sentence and she saw his eyes turn to slits, she knew she had said the wrong thing.

"This is important!" he hollered and Molly took a faltering step back. She had seen him getting furious a few times, but never had his anger been directed at her – at least not to this extent. This was not only Sherlock being angry, this was Sherlock being hurt. If her moment of panic was visible, he did not give any indication that he had noticed.

"It is our wedding! Could you manage to have at least the decency to act as if you'd care!" His eyes were burning with reproach.  
"Sherlock, I...," she stammered. She was not sure what to tell him. This was all too much for her. It was getting out of control.

Sherlock was so furious. Didn't she see that he wanted to make it right, for her? He saw that he had frightened her with his outburst, but he was at his wits end. He growled, tucked at his curls and went over to the window. He thought about telling her to leave, or about getting out of here himself, but that would have been rude. It was one of those disturbing thoughts he had on occasion – like when he had a cruel deduction at the tip of his tongue. He was not sure where those thoughts came from. They seemed right and wrong at the same time.

Molly plopped down onto the armchair defeated and sighed deeply. She wanted to talk him out of involving himself with such dull questions as which cake to choose, but she knew it would be in vain. They were way past that stage now.

Her eyes flickered over the different images of cakes that all looked not only delicious, but extremely expensive. Someone had circled the photo of the cake on the right corner of the page with red marker. That someone was presumably Sherlock. She took a closer look.  
"Looks like you've already chosen the cake," she stated, not in an accusing way, but more with a little mirth in her voice.  
"I made a... preselection. It's a suggestion," Sherlock's voice came over from his place by the window. He kept it neutral, but Molly could detect that his anger was drifting away.  
"You suggest chocolate raspberry cake?"  
"It's your favourite one."

Molly could hear him turn away from the window and come closer again, but she did not look up from the image of the cake Sherlock had circled.

"How do you know?" she breathed with wonder in her voice.  
"You had it on our first date," he stated like she was mad for forgetting something like that.  
Sherlock sat on the armrest of the chair, but Molly was busy searching her mind for the moment Sherlock could classify for their first date that involved chocolate raspberry cake. To her surprise she came up with a suitable memory rather quickly:

Sherlock had been in the lab, looking at some evidence through his microscope, when Molly had come back from her lunch break, coffee and dessert in her hand. She had greeted him (he had not acknowledged her presence with more than a nod), sat beside the consulting detective with some paperwork and had sipped her coffee and ate her chocolate raspberry cake.  
After about ten minutes of comfortable silence, she had felt him staring at her. She had turned to look at him when he had chastised her, "I don't think you should eat chocolate raspberry cake in the lab. You are contaminating my workspace." She had been pissed off by his comment. Feeling courageous thanks to endorphins provided by chocolate she snapped, "This is my workspace and my favourite cake. So either deal with it or leave."  
She would never forget the look on his face. He had blinked, opened and closed his mouth, but remained silent. He had returned to his work and had mumbled under his breath, "You could have at least brought me a coffee too." With a smug smile she had finished her slice of cake and then had gotten him some coffee as well. He had actually thanked her.

Molly came back from her memory. Obviously Sherlock remembered that incident a bit differently. Still, she was impressed that he had remembered that chocolate raspberry cake was her favourite one.

There was a ghost of a smile hovering over her lips. "I would not have thought you remembered that," she told him truthfully.

He smiled proudly at her. "So you want chocolate raspberry cake, then?" He regarded her closely but with hidden joy in his eyes.  
"Yes, chocolate raspberry cake would be lovely."  
Sherlock clapped his hands together and got up. "Brilliant, I'll tell the confectioner."

Molly got up as well and was just about to ask him, if she could go back to work now that the case of the wedding cake was solved, when he went on, "Do you think there will be a murder at our wedding?"  
Molly knew that it was wrong that a person sounded so excited about this prospect. And it was even more wrong that she did not mind.  
"Sherlock...," she started, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.  
He went on, as if he had not heard her, "Well, technically it was only attempted murder at John's wedding. So if there were a murder at our wedding, we..."  
"Sherlock, this is not a competition!" she reminded him with a stern voice, but was belied by the amused twinkle in her eyes.  
He turned to look at her with a wicked grin. She chuckled and shook her head.

He turned serious all of a sudden. "I did not only drag you here to talk about the cake."  
"I had hoped so," she said, waiting to see where this was headed.

He scratched his neck and his eyes darted around the room. If it were not making Molly nervous, she would have found it endearing.

"Do you think Toby would mind having a dog friend?"  
"What?" Molly had no idea where this had come from.  
Sherlock started pacing, explaining, "You know I ... almost like Toby, I understand that he is important to you. But I've always been more of a dog's person, and so I was wondering if you would mind getting a dog? It would be beneficial for my work, and we could train it to become a cadaver dog. I've always wanted to have a cadaver dog."

He looked at her like a 5-year-old that asked his mommy for a puppy for Christmas. Molly had to hold back a laugh at the sight and tried to reason with him, "I don't know, Sherlock. Apart from the fact that this flat might be a bit small for a cat and a dog... What if it whimpers or barks when it's alone? I don't think Mrs Hudson would…"  
Suddenly Sherlock went rigid, his head snapped towards her and he exclaimed, "It barked! Molly Hooper, you are brilliant! That's it!"  
He took her face in both his hands and kissed her soundly.  
When he let her go and was already busy snatching his phone from the coffee table and getting his coat, she mumbled confused, "What's what?"

He turned around while tying the blue scarf around his neck. "The dog!" he said, as if she was being deliberately slow.  
"What?" Molly could still not follow.  
"The curious incident of the dog in the night-time!"  
"What?" Molly repeated, but Sherlock was already running down the stairs while talking to John on the phone.


	25. Out of Sight...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I can't tell you how happy all your comments, kudos etc. make me. Thank you!
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Moonunit, because the final clue is a quote from one of her favourite Sherlock Holmes stories. Thanks for always embarrassing me with your reviews ;-) 
> 
> Thank you for being my beta, Pipsis!

**25\. Out of Sight… **

"Footfalls echo in the memory  
Down the passage which we did not take  
Towards the door we never opened."  
\- T.S. Eliot

 

 

Sherlock had been silent, but agitated on their way to Hampshire. He had tapped on the stirring wheel and exceeded the speed limit more than once, and John had been tempted to berate him, but had refrained from it. The look Sherlock had given him when he had suggested that he could drive had been enough the keep John from questioning his best friend again for the rest of the way. Sherlock had called him and told him that he had solved the case and they needed to go to the Rucastles now. That had been all. John did not know what the solution was, nor how Sherlock had figured it out. He hoped Sherlock would tell him in due time. Until then he could only watch his brilliant friend work.

When they stopped in front of the gate that led to the estate and Sherlock pulled down the window to enter the security code, John was not sure if he was even surprised that the consulting detective knew the combination. They entered the estate and drove right up to the front door. Sherlock turned off the engine and was about to get out of the car. John was about to ask if he should call the police, when Sherlock pre-empted him, "No. Time is of the essence." He hurried out of the car and up the stairs to the front door. John did the same and once again wondered if maybe his best friend was indeed a telepath.

Sherlock only rang the bell once and the door was opened. He strode past a surprised looking Ms Hunter and barked, "Who told you that Alice Rucastle was in Philadelphia?"  
The young governess' face was a picture of bewilderment when she stared from the consulting detective to his blogger, who had followed into the hall.

Sherlock's eyes darted about the room and then settled on the Chihuahua who came running out of the study.  
He turned back to the woman. "Ms Hunter, who told you that Alice Rucastle was in Philadelphia?" he repeated in an urgent tone.  
The governess shook her head confused, as if trying to make sense of his question. "Mr Rucastle," she answered uncertain.  
"Have you ever seen her?" Sherlock questioned her further.  
"No."  
The consulting detective nodded as if her answer proved his suspicion. Again he looked at the little creature that was now standing at his feet, happily wagging its tail. "Where there any other dogs present at the night of the party?"  
Again Ms Hunter was confused by his line of questioning, but was quicker to answer this time, "No, only Carlo. Other dogs are not allowed in the house."  
"Mr and Mr Rucastle are not at home at present." It was not a question, but Ms Hunter nodded none the less.  
Sherlock nodded again and was about to ascend the stairs when Mr Toller hurried down the corridor towards them. Sherlock's face contorted in annoyance for a second, before it became a blank mask once more.  
"What are you doing here? Do you have an appointment?" Mr Toller asked with clear indignation in his voice.  
"I prefer to show up unannounced. I am more the spontaneous type. Isn't that right, John?" Sherlock turned towards his blogger.  
"Yes. Sometimes even a bit too spontaneous for my taste," aforementioned person agreed.

The steward ended up standing in front of the consulting detective and tried to look intimidating, which left Sherlock naturally unimpressed.  
The consulting detective organized his face into a smile, but his eyes remained detached from the process, "Could we have a look into the east wing?"  
Before the butler could answer, Sherlock went on, "I know we could not, so…"  
And with that he sidestepped Mr Toller and hurried up the stairs. It only took John a second, and then he followed his friend in hope that he had a plan.

The servants needed a moment longer, surprised by the turn of events, but eventually hurried to catch up with the duo.

By the time they reached them, Mr Toller realized in horror that Sherlock had already turned the key and was about to open the door that lead to the east wing.

In desperation Mr Toller ran over to them, determined to keep them from entering the wing, but he had not expected the courage and quick thinking of Ms Hunter, for she grabbed one of the heavy candlesticks from a dresser and stroke him with it.

John and Sherlock turned at the sound of the steward falling onto the floor. Both men raised their eyebrows in surprise, but only on Sherlock's lips tugged an amused smile.  
John was about to get to see if Mr Toller was severely hurt, but Sherlock's voice kept him from doing so, "No, John, your medical expertise will be needed beyond that door. He is not seriously injured. Ms Hunter, you'll stay with Mr Toller and call the police."

The young woman was pale and looked at the device in her hand as if she registered only now what she had done. As if it had burned her, she put the candlestick back onto its rightful place.

"Ms Hunter!" Sherlock tried to get her to focus, his voice laced with urgency.  
She stared at him. "What should I tell the police?" Her voice was small and did not seem to belong to a woman who had just knocked out a man who was considerably taller and stronger than her.  
"That Sherlock Holmes demands DI Lestrade and that they should send the paramedics."  
With that he entered the east wing.

John followed his friend, who went along the corridor with a fast stride. The doors they had passed so far had been wide ajar and the rooms behind them empty. It was cold and smelt rotten. John shivered.  
"Sherlock, what are we looking for?"  
The consulting detective did not answer, but stopped in front of a closed door. He turned to look at his best friend. John caught up with him and looked at the door. Sherlock was about to get the key he had used on the door to the wing out of his pocket, when John just pushed the handle down and the door opened. Mirth danced in his eyes.  
"Ever the hands-on-type, Dr Watson," Sherlock commented and pushed the door open.

The room was dark. The windows were nailed up with wooden boards. John put two and two together and came up with the fact that this had been one of the nailed up windows they had been looking at when they had been outside the fence. This was one of the rooms Mr Toller had told them Mr Rucastle was using as a dark room for his hobby of photography. John had never been in a dark room before, but he figured that this place was not one. It seemed like Mr Rucastle had a different kind of hobby.

Sherlock switched on the light and stepped into the room. It was dirty. There were a mattress on the floor in one corner, some clothes scattered on the floor, an empty glass, some books, a table and a wooden chair that looked like it was going to fall apart any second. But apart from that the room was empty.

"Sherlock, is this...," John's voice trailed off as the detective stepped past him, exited and went down the corridor to the next door. His friend followed. This time Sherlock tried the handle, but now the door would not open. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he slowly unlocked the door.

Again they looked into a dark room with nailed up windows, but this time when Sherlock switched on the lights, there were not only a mattress, clothes, a table, books and some other random items in it, but also a skinny person huddled on the mattress in the corner.

John approached the woman carefully. "Everything is alright, Miss. We are here to help you."

She buried her face deeper into her hands and tried to huddle even closer into the corner. It seemed as if she wanted the wall to absorb her.

John still came closer while Sherlock remained standing in the doorway deducing the room.  
"Don't be afraid, Miss," John said again when he reached the mattress. He wanted to get closer to her to examine her, but was afraid she would panic. The former army doctor looked over at Sherlock, whose gaze finally settled on the woman in the corner as well.  
His voice was of an empathetic tone that John had never heard before coming out of the mouth of his friend, "It is over now, Ms Rucastle. He won't hurt you anymore."

John did not know what surprised him more: the fact that Sherlock had called the woman Ms Rucastle, or the fact that when she finally lifted her head to look at John, he thought that Violet Hunter was staring right back at him.

* * *

"Now explain it to me, will you?" John demanded of Sherlock.  
They were in the study again. The house was swarming with police, Mr Toller (he was not severely injured) was in custody, Mr and Mrs Rucastle were already at the police station, Ms Hunter gave her statement to Lestrade (John did not know why he was handling the affair, since they were outside of London) and Ms Rucastle had been taken to hospital. She was so traumatized, she was not even able to speak.

John was seated on the couch, sipping a cup of tea while Sherlock stood by the window looking out. He had not said much since they had found the poor woman in the dark room.

"Sherlock, I think you've had your fun with being the clever one, but now I would really like to know what was going on here."

Slowly Sherlock turned to his friend, his face emotionless, and explained, "When I did not see any photographs of Alice Rucastle I became curious and did some research on her. She was supposedly in Philadelphia, there was a flight ticket (booked with her father's credit card), but then her trace vanished. There was no proof that she had ever made it to Philadelphia. She was missing. Ms Hunter told us of noises coming from the east wing and no one was to enter it. Therefore someone was likely to be held there against their will. So far so obvious. But why lock her away? I could get hold of her medical records. She had suffered from a nervous breakdown and other psychological problems after her mother's death. As you well know, Mr Rucastle is a very old-fashioned man and family honour is everything to him. Alice was to take over the family enterprise – since it belonged to her mother' side of the family – after his death. But in his eyes she was a shame for the family. But she got a monthly wage from her trust fund, and he needed that money. The company had financial problems."

In his head John mulled over what Sherlock had told him. "Okay, but why does she look like Ms Hunter?"  
"The right question is: Why does Ms Hunter look like Alice Rucastle?"  
John rolled his eyes. "Don't be a smart arse, Sherlock."  
Sherlock flashed him a grin, before he replied, "Remember the footprints we saw outside the fence?"  
John nodded.  
"Like I have said, someone was watching. That was why Ms Hunter had to sit in the chair by the window. Her role was not so much that of a governess, but of posing as Alice Rucastle by the window. So that when her boyfriend looked in, he saw her and thought everything was alright."  
"Her boyfriend?"  
"Obviously. He is a local. Mr Rucastle took his daughter's phone and pretended to be her, so her boyfriend would not become suspicious. The seeds we found in the footprint were of Fagus sylvatica purpurea, Copper Beeches. At first I was disappointed, because it did not really tell us anything new, but it told us that at some point the man must have made it beyond the fence. Because the Copper Beeches only grow on the premises, and the wind would not blow them so far away. The gate is always closed and locked. Mr Toller is in charge of it and controls who can enter without knowing the combination. The police will find footage of a man who entered the premises. Mr Rucastle did not wipe it, because he wanted to find out who the young man was. They will find the footage in the top drawer of the desk in the sitting room. I have already told Greg."

John put down his empty cup and shook his head. "Poor Ms Rucastle. That's really sick. What kind of person does that?"

Sherlock only shrugged, "This generation of criminals, so utterly vulgar."

"Where did you get the key to the door of the wing all of a sudden?"  
"I've had it all along. I snatched it out of the top drawer of Mr Rucastle's table in the study when we were waiting for Ms Hunter the last time we were here. I knew it was the spare one so they would not miss it."  
"How did you know where it was?"  
"Dull, predictable."

John had to smile a bit at that. When Sherlock was busy solving a mystery, he was indeed almost his old self. He wished Molly could see that.

Suddenly another question that needed answering entered his mind, "So you knew it was Mr Rucastle all along?"  
Sherlock looked almost sheepish. "No."  
John raised an eyebrow to demand an explanation.  
Sherlock sighed, "Molly made me finally see it. I had always suspected that Mr Rucastle had been the one to knock me out, but I was not sure. And then Molly said that there was a possibility that Mrs Hudson would be bothered by our dog barking."

John decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock had just said "our dog", but let him carry on. As long as he did not say "our child", they were fine.

"I remembered what Ms Hunter had told us: That Carlos never barks at strangers. The only person he barks at is Mr Rucastle. And just before I was knocked out I had heard a dog barking. Since Carlos was the only dog present this night, it must have been Mr Rucastle. Simple chain of evidence. The final clue was the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."

John chuckled. This would make a hilarious entry on his blog. _The curious incident of the dog in the night-time_ was probably a bit long for a title, but definitely a memorable quote.

"So, everyone was involved in this? Apart from Ms Hunter?"  
Sherlock shook his head, "I guess so, but let's find out."

With that the door opened and in went Lestrade and a brunette woman in her forties.  
"This is Ms Sarah Marshall, Sherlock," Lestrade said and gestured the woman to sit down.

John remembered Ms Hunter telling them of her – she was the housekeeper. Her hands were shaking and her eyes puffy. She had obviously been crying.

"Nice to meet you Miss Marshall. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson."

Miss Marshall nodded and John did the same, trying to smile kindly at her. She looked so shaken, he felt sorry for her.

Sherlock's perceptive gaze settled on the woman. Lestrade resumed standing and watched events unfold from his place by the door.

Miss Marshall wrung her trembling hands in her lap and obviously felt exposed under Sherlock's scrutiny. John did not blame her. Being the focus of Sherlock's attention was seldom a pleasant experience.

Just as John was about to say something to make Sherlock snap out of it, the consulting detective's stare softened considerably and he said, "You've wanted to help her, didn't you? You felt sorry for her. You knew it was wrong."  
Ms Marshall's eyes widened fractionally and fresh tears formed in them. She nodded vigorously. "I wanted to help them, Mr Holmes, I swear! I couldn't save both. I had to make a decision. And she was already so far gone. I..." She broke into tears and John laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.  
"What do you mean, Ms Marshall?" Sherlock asked her in a harsher tone, but the woman broke down. She started to hyperventilate and Lestrade had to get her out of the room to the paramedics.

"Poor woman," John sighed as the door closed behind her. "Maybe she'll find some peace now that it's over."  
John was surprised by the statement of his friend, "This is not over yet, John. We missed something. It does not make sense."

* * *

**A/N: Well, I couldn't just take the solution of the original story, could I? Would have been too easy for you ;)  
Since some of you asked me: There will be a total of 30 chapters, so the finish line is already in sight. **


	26. ... out of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back my wonderful readers. Thank you for encouraging me and guessing along.   
> As usual: Pipsis, you are fantastic!

**26\. … out of Mind**

"But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind."  
― Margaret Atwood, _The Handmaid's Tale_

 

 

Sherlock had solved the case. John had told her. Subsequently when Molly arrived at Baker Street with Chinese take away to celebrate it, she was surprised to find her fiancé (flatmate) pacing up and down the living room like a caged animal mumbling along. She had expected him to be euphoric, instead he was erratic. She wished, not for the first time, that his moods weren't so inscrutable.

After putting her coat, scarf and shoes away, she went into the kitchen to put the food onto the counter. She leaned against the kitchen counter and studied the consulting detective. He acted as if he had not even realized that she had entered the flat, and maybe he had not; it would not have been the first time.

After listening to his mumbling for a few minutes, Molly could make out some words he repeated in between: "There must be something. There is always something... She said two…"  
Molly sighed deeply and grabbed her box of take away. She knew Sherlock would remain in this state for some time, so she could at least eat something before she could question him what was bothering him.

While chewing on her noodles and watching Sherlock's frantic pacing (it was an oddly comforting feeling seeing him do that, for he behaved like his old self), she let her thoughts wander.  
Their pathetic attempt at evoking memories by re-enacting scenes from Sherlock's past had failed. John wanted to stick to the plan and carry on, but Molly thought it could be detrimental to his health. Obviously it had not helped to bring back Sherlock's memories, but had only led to anger and confusion. Now she was afraid that further re-enactments would hurt more than help. They had discussed different approaches, but they could not agree on one. The friends were at their wits end. Especially Molly became more and more anxious, because with every day that passed the wedding came closer. It was still a few months to go, but she asked herself more and more frequently what would happen if his memories would not return in due time? What if they would never return? She started to seriously consider confronting Sherlock with the truth. Unfortunately the doctors, as well as her friends, thought that was out of the question.

Molly grew more frustrated day by day. She knew that it was hard for everyone, but she was the one who had to pretend to be engaged to the man she loved, only to know that it was all a lie. There were moments when she wanted to cry, slap or kiss him, and she did not know which was right or wrong. If he would not get back his memories before the wedding, what was she supposed to do? She could not marry him. There was only so far one could go. Apart from the fact that she worried what would happen if his memories would not return, she worried what would happen when his memories returned. How would he take it that they had all participated in his play of amnesia? Would he be angry? (very likely) Would he be embarrassed for being affectionate – especially towards her? (also very likely) Would he severe contact with her? (not so likely, put still probable) Would he regret opening up to her? (definitely) Would he hate her for giving away her phone?

Molly shook her head to get rid of those thoughts. All these doubts and fears did not get her anywhere. She was not sure what to do about it, but she needed to broach the subject... somehow. He had asked her for dinner so that they could discuss... it – whatever it was. She knew Sherlock had his suspicions, and she would do anything to wipe them away, but in order to do that she needed to be prepared. She needed more information, more data. She needed to find out what he was planning. Molly threw away her now empty take away box and took a deep breath before she addressed her fiancé.

"Sherlock, about dinner..."  
But she did not come any further, because he interrupted her, "Not now, Molly, I am busy."  
She had a hard time not falling into her old mousy-Molly-Hooper-habit. "I know, I am sorry, but..."  
"Stop your silly rambling, I can't think and I need to think," he said with warning in his voice.  
"I understand, but..."  
"Not now!" he hollered and stopped in front of the mantelpiece, glaring at her.

Now Molly became mousy after all. She bowed her head and said in a meek voice, "I'm sorry."

She was about to leave him alone and take a shower, when a gentle hand around her wrist made her stop. She looked up stunned, for she had not heard him approach.

"No, I am sorry. It's just... You know how I am when...," he tried to explain himself in a much calmer tone.

She shook her head. She knew his ways, and she had to admit she was not even surprised by his outburst, more by him apologizing. "I know. It's okay," she assured him.  
"No it's not."

He cocked his head to the side and regarded her with his attentive eyes. His expression became closed off all of a sudden. "Sometimes I get the impression you want me to say horrible things to you."

His questioning gaze made her nervous, and she tried not to react to his ability to read her mind. Or at least his ability to read her.

Lucky for her, he did not question her further about it, but shook his head, as if getting rid of some disturbing thoughts. His expression became more open again, and his voice was calm, when he prompted, "What was it you wanted to ask me about dinner?"  
"I just...," she began, but then faltered.

The way he looked at her made it impossible for her to go on with what she wanted to say. It was a look full of calm affection, and she knew that the real Sherlock would never look at her like that. How could she ever explain to him – over a romantic dinner with candles and champagne (did one have chips with champagne?) – why she acted so closed off, why she kept things from him without ruining everything? Sure, her acting skills had improved greatly over the last few years – given the needs – but Sherlock would see through her. He would know that she was not completely honest. He would finally see through her act. Her performance would probably be Golden Raspberry- but not Oscar-worthy. And then what? And suddenly Molly Hooper knew what to do. Her heart clenched at the mere thought of it, but she did not have another choice.

"I thought the case was solved?"  
He did not hide the surprise at her change of topic, but went with it. He knew she was hiding something from him, and he had observed how it took its toll on her. She had lost weight – and she was not supposed to. She should have gained weight – domestic bliss and all... But now was neither the time nor the place to confront her with it. He would do it over dinner – just as planned. Now he needed to find the final puzzle piece in the Rucastle case. And after he'd found it and solved this problem, he would tackle the next. But one step at a time.

Therefore he answered her question, but not with a certain irritation in his voice, "It was solved. All circumstantial evidence pointed towards this solution."  
"But?" She could feel that there was a "but" coming, otherwise he wouldn't be pacing the living room. Additionally she was glad that he had let her change the topic and was not talking about "them" anymore.

Sherlock turned away from her and went over to the table that was packed with papers and files for the Rucastle case. He started to search through them while he kept talking.  
"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Sherlock thoughtfully, "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different."

She knew all too well what he was talking about, although he was talking about the case and she was thinking about her personal life.

Sherlock tugged frustrated at his curls and kept rummaging through the papers on the table. "It doesn't make sense. This Mr Toller... he is involved. I just don't know..."

He growled and stopped his actions. He stared at the pile of files in front of him.  
"The solution must be right in front of me. I know it. It's somewhere...," his voice drifted off, and he sounded a bit defeated.  
Molly felt sorry for him. She wished she could help him somehow. So she asked in a shy voice, "What are you looking for?"  
Sherlock ignored her and kept staring at the papers on the table. She tried again, "Sherlock, what do you need?"  
Suddenly Sherlock's posture went stiff and his eyes snapped towards her, and for a moment Molly thought she saw something like recognition in them, and she held her breath.

Could it be? She thought her heart had stopped as well while he stared at her, and she was sure the panic was visible on her face.

But then he looked away from her again, reached for a paper on the table, help up a file that Molly recognized immediately and exclaimed with an excited glint in his eyes, "This!"


	27. Being Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for being brilliant – especially Pipsis for proofreading!
> 
> Let's make it like Sherlock: one step at a time. First we solve the case…

**27\. Being Sherlock Holmes **

"Memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but usually coherent version of events; and no sane human being ever trusts someone else's version more than his own."  
― Salman Rushdie, _Midnight's Children_

 

 

Sherlock had summoned them at the Yard: John, Lestrade and Ms Hunter. Donovan was there as well, although Sherlock had not asked for her. They sat in the conference room of the Yard with its uninviting atmosphere of grey wall and matching carpet. All (except for Donovan maybe) were curious as to why the consulting detective had called for them, although the Rucastle case was already closed.

They were sitting around the round table and waiting for Sherlock to fill them in, but who had chosen to remain silent so far. He sat there with his fingers steepled under his chin and staring straight ahead. They all knew it was better to wait until he was ready, but their patience was running thin.

Finally Donovan could not take it anymore and asked annoyed, "Is it really necessary that we sit here and watch the freak stare into space?"  
Sherlock snapped out of his trance and his eyes narrowed at her, "What?"  
Donovan let out an exasperated sigh and began, "I said…"  
But the consulting detective interrupted her, sounding as bored as ever, "I heard you perfectly. I only wanted to convey my disbelief of your stupid question."  
Donovan's eyes became small slits, but she could not come up with a comeback.  
John had to hold back a chuckle. Sherlock may have changed, but deep down, he was still a Misanthrope.

The detective turned towards the other people in the room – obviously he considered Sergeant Donovan not worthy of his attention anymore.

The door opened and in popped the head of Anderson, who looked eager to enter. But he did not dare to straight away, so he asked, "Can I be of any help?"  
Sherlock glanced at him shortly and then held up his Belstaff, "You can be of some help. Hold my coat. It's quite hot in here."  
Anderson's eyebrows almost went into his hairline and his lips contorted into a grudging smile, but he was too stunned to reply. So he just grabbed the expensive piece of clothing, muttered something under his breath and left again.

John and Lestrade shook their heads.

The consulting detective cleared his throat. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Sherlock said, mostly looking at Ms Hunter, who smiled timidly at him.

He did not give anyone the chance to say something, because he went on, "I have found the missing piece of the puzzle."  
With that he held up the file he had brought with him. John and Lestrade leaned slightly forward. It read, _P.M.,CB, St. Andrew's, Victoria_. John's eyes widened a bit, because he recognized it: It was the file Mycroft had given him to pass on to Sherlock.  
"Sherlock, is this?" he still had to ask, although he already knew the answer.  
Sherlock nodded, "Yes, John. It is the file from Mycroft. The dull lost daddy case."  
"And this is the final piece of the puzzle?" Lestrade asked puzzled, because he could not really follow.  
The consulting detective smiled, "Yes. Seems like the lost daddy case was not so dull after all."

There was silence for a minute in which four people in the room stared at the fifth, because they had no idea what he was talking about.  
"Care to enlighten us, Sherlock?" John prompted.  
The man in question leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath and then explained it to them, "When we entered the east wing, all rooms were abandoned, but two."  
"Well, the two rooms where Alice Rucastle was held," Lestrade interjected.  
"No," Sherlock said, "Alice Rucastle was only held in one room. The other room had been occupied by another person before we got there. The clothes in the first room were men's clothes, the books there were ones generally read by men and one could tell by the state of the room that he had not been there for so long as Alice Rucastle. Did no one pay attention to that?"  
Sherlock looked around them room, although he knew perfectly well that it had more or less been a rhetorical question. If they had paid attention to those facts they would not need him.

Since no one answered him anyway, he went on, "Apparently two people had been held hostage at the Rucastle's. Ms Marshall confirmed my suspicion by saying that she could not save both."  
"So she helped the man who was held hostage in the first room to escape?" John asked.  
"Precisely. But I could not tell right away who this man was, I did not have enough data. I assumed that Ms Hunter was there to pose as Ms Rucastle by sitting in the chair by the window to let Ms Rucastle's boyfriend believe that she was alright. But what about Mr Toller?"  
"What about him?" Lestrade piped in.  
"Ms Hunter told us that she only had to sit by the window after she had caught Mr Toller doing that for the Rucastles. And he did not wear his uniform, but an expensive suit, clearly given to him by the Rucastles. He had also changed his hair. Is that correct Ms Hunter?"

It took her a moment to react, because she was obviously so fascinated by his deductions that she did not realize straight away that he had addressed her. "Yes, Mr Holmes, that is correct."

Sherlock nodded and looked at the others again. "So I concluded that Mr Toller was the one who had been hired to pose as someone else. Letting Ms Hunter doing the same was only to make it look less suspicious, and hiring someone who looked like his daughter may have been some kind of comfort for Mr Rucastle."  
John shook his head, "No, this is not comforting, this is just sick."  
Ms Hunter's eyes widened at his words and John hastened to add, "No offence, Ms Hunter. Nothing of this is your fault."

The governess nodded and looked back at Sherlock, wanting him to continue, which he promptly did, "So the question was, who was Mr Toller impersonating? And this is where this comes in."  
He held up the file. He opened it and pushed it over to the others so they could have a look at it. They could not keep the wonder out of their eyes when they saw the picture of a young man that looked a lot like Mr Toller.

"This is Peter Munro, supposedly son of Colonel Spence Munro, who was a former colleague of my insufferable brother Mycroft and worked for the government in Australia."

"Was?" John asked and drew his eyes from the file towards his best friend.

There was a hint of pride in Sherlock's eyes (because his blogger had paid attention) when he said, "Yes. He died a few months ago. And on his deathbed he revealed to his son that he was not his biological father, but that he was the product of an affair between his mother and a married man back in England. That's how the file came into my possession: Mycroft wanted me to find the biological father. But since I was ... occupied... at the time, Mr Munro took it into his own hands and lo and behold, he was successful. He could track down the man in Hampshire. He stayed at the village for some time, not daring to confront the man that was supposed to be his biological father just yet. So he just watched and waited from a safe distance, and that was when he met a young man from the village with whom he fell in love with. I figure you have already identified the man on the security tapes that has entered the premises?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, ignoring Donovan completely.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded, "his name is Roger Fowler."

John shook his head in disbelieve, "You mean that this Mr Fowler was Mr Munro's boyfriend? And he was the one watching the sitting room from outside the fence?" John asked.

"Yes. After some watching and waiting Mr Munro decided that it was time to meet his biological father, who happened to be..."

"Mr Rucastle!" Ms Hunter breathed.

Sherlock shot her a glance that clearly transported that he was not happy that she had spoiled his revelation.

Still he went on with a rather calm voice, "Exactly. While being married to his first wife, Mr Rucastle had an affair with Mr Munro's mother. Being the old-fashioned, conservative man he is, one can imagine that Mr Rucastle was not happy at all that the product of his transgression showed up one day. He feared a scandal and that Mr Munro would claim his rightful share of the company and the estate. Hence Mr Rucastle saw no other choice but to hold the young man hostage. But there was the problem of the boyfriend Mr Fowler, who would become suspicious. So he hired Mr Toller, who resembled Mr Munro in height, figure and hair (after being cut and dyed), to impersonate the vanished Mr Munro. But the housekeeper Ms Marshall could not take it, and she helped Mr Munro escape. When she is able to be interrogated, she will confirm what I have just told you."

There was silence is the room for a few moments, in which everyone (excluding Sherlock, of course) reflected on what the consulting detective had just told them.

John was the first to speak, "That also explains why there was an Australian agent from the Foreign Office at _Westaway's_."  
"Yes, they were looking for Peter Munro," Sherlock confirmed and then looked at Lestrade. "If you have nothing further to add, I hereby declare this case closed."

Ms Hunter shook her head. "I can't believe it. This is... I just can't believe it." She put her head into her hands.

Sherlock laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked at him then and said, "I think I need... a minute... or two."  
With that she slowly got up. Sherlock and the other men did the same.  
"Can I get you anything, Miss Hunter? A glass of water maybe?" Lestrade asked.  
The young woman shook her head, "No thank you, Detective Inspector. I just need some fresh air to clear my head. I'll back in about half an hour, if that is okay for you? I reckon you'll have further questions?"  
"No problem, Ms Hunter, take your time," Lestrade said in a gentle tone.

She turned towards the others. "Thank you all. Especially you Mr Holmes and Dr Watson."  
She stretched out her hand and the two men shook it.  
Sherlock went over to open the door for her. When she passed him, he gave her a simple smile with no future.

After the door had closed behind their client, Lestrade mulled it all over in his head again. "But Mr Peter Munro, what happened to him?"  
Sherlock shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing, "He reunited with his boyfriend, Mr Fowler."

Donovan crossed her arms in front of her chest and held her head high, as if challenging Sherlock, "But where are Mr Munro and his mysterious boyfriend?"  
Sherlock's mouth curled into an enigmatic smile when he answered, "You won't find them. They've probably made it to the other side of the world by now."

* * *

**A/N: The credit for the lines I borrowed from** _**Without a Clue** _ **goes to the writer, of course. If you haven't seen the film - it's a hilarious comedy starring Michael Cane and Sir Ben Kingsley as Holmes and Watson.**


	28. Requiem for a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've never gotten so many readers, kudos, comments before – WOW! You are all amazing! 
> 
> I'm grateful Pipsis beta'd this chapter, although "it killed her emotionally." Sorry… 
> 
> Now that we've solved the case, on to the next step...

**28\. Requiem for a Dream**

"Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!"  
― John Irving, _A Prayer for Owen Meany_

 

You know this knot in your chest? It feels like it's suffocating you; like it is about to crush your heart. You desperately wish to cry, because you hope that letting go will loosen this knot. A bit. You want to give yourself over to the tears and the pain, but you can't. The tears won't come. Only the pain remains. You carry this knot with you. You cannot get rid of it. It will not let you go. It is like a parasite. It becomes part of you – a fateful symbiosis. And you start to ask yourself if you would be able to live without it at all. You worry that you've become too dependent on this darkness inside you, that you will not feel whole anymore once it's gone. At the same time it is getting heavier. It becomes harder to bear. And you fear that one day you will not be strong enough anymore. One day it will wear you down.

Such a knot had started to grow within Molly Hooper the moment she first had lain eyes on the engagement ring Sherlock Holmes had given her, and it had been her constant companion ever since. Sure, there had been moments when it had loosened a bit, but I had never been gone completely. She had always known it was there. It was the guilt Molly felt when she lied to him, the pain when she saw what her rejection did to him, the doubt when she asked herself if they were doing the right thing, the hurt when she witnessed his helpless confusion and the stab in the heart when she had invented this one memory he had desperately been looking for in his mind palace.

The time since Sherlock's accident had been an unrealistic blur of events. Molly had imagined a relationship with Sherlock Holmes many times. As opposed to other people, she had never wondered if he was capable of having one, but if he would ever be willing to. Would he ever trust a person enough to let them through the makeshift barricades around his heart? She did not deny that she had always wished to be that person. And when she had seen the relief in his eyes when he had saved her from her abductor, she had hoped that maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance for them. Then he had turned cold and dismissive. She had tried to understand it – to understand him. She knew it was part of "Being Sherlock Holmes." It had been his helplessness about dealing with the situation, with coming to terms with the fact that he had felt something and that he had acted according to those feelings. He had shown her – and everyone else in the room – that he cared about her. And that had confused him. Because feelings were confusing. So he had been angry with himself – and probably with her – for letting his sentiment getting the better of him. And even though Molly Hooper had understood all that, it had hurt her yet again.

And then he had wanted her to be his fiancée. Just for one night. Just for a case. But then it had become _The Case of the amnesiac Detective_ and she had been his fiancée every night ever since. And being engaged to amnesiac Sherlock was totally different from what she had expected from a relationship with the consulting detective. Somehow reality cheapened things. Maybe because it was not real. At least not for her. It did not  feel real, because she knew it was all a lie. Their time was borrowed and had been ticking away from the moment she had looked him in the eyes in the hospital room and told him her first lie. There had been many ever since. And she hated herself for every single one.

She could not bear his gentle touch, because she felt he would hate her as well, if he knew what she was doing. She could barely stand being close to him anymore. She felt raw inside, all she'd known torn into asunder.

Molly felt like one lie after the other left her mouth. She was afraid of how easy it had become for her to tell a lie. She feared she could not tell right from wrong anymore. She felt like she was committing some felony every single day, by just waking up next to him, or letting him kiss her.

Planning a wedding that would never be, inventing memories and adjusting her past to the confabulation of a man you loved took its toll. All those assumptions obscured the truth, and this emotional conflagration was about to burn not only Molly Hooper, but Sherlock Holmes as well.

She'd known from the beginning that eventually it would have to end. They had always had an expiration date. The ring had become a burden. She had thought she could carry it, but she had been wrong. It pulled her down farther and farther, and she was drowning. She had thought she had it in her to do this; to play her part, to do whatever was necessary to help Sherlock, but she just couldn't take it anymore. She could not compartmentalize and put her real feelings for him into a box labelled "Don't open until further notice" while playing the devoted fiancée. This charade gave method acting and "living ones role" a whole new meaning.

She had given it a lot of thought. It would be for the best. That way she may be able to save the bit that was left of the trust between them when he'd get his memories back. Molly had made a decision. She couldn't live like that. She couldn't do this any longer. She was too weak to pretend everything was alright anymore. She needed to let the dream of a relationship with Sherlock Holmes go. But first she had to end this nightmare.

* * *

Sherlock had come home quite late from the Yard to find Molly curled up on the sofa with Toby beside her, wearing a faraway expression on her face. He had been glad that she was still awake, for he had yearned to share with her his brilliance of solving the case.

Molly had listened to him telling her all about dark family secrets, scandalous affairs and vanished lovers. She could not help but note that it would have made an excellent soap opera.

Still she had listened only with one ear. Her mind had been busy with what she was about to do.

After he had finished his tale of deduction and deception and she had congratulated him, she let a few moment pass, before she said with as much calm as she could muster, "Sherlock, we need to talk."  
She could not believe that she really had started this conversation with the most cliché opener of all.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and chuckled, "Isn't this the sentence with which every break-up-conversation begins?"  
The room fell silent and the temperature dropped about 20 degrees. Sherlock put the remains of the sandwich he had devoured down onto the plate.  
"This is the moment where you are supposed to giggle, pat me on the arm and tell me, 'Don't be daft, Sherlock,'" he gave her direction, but his intonation made it a question rather than a statement.

Molly had made up a whole speech in her head, but of course all words fled her mind at the look Sherlock was giving her. He was panicking. And he was never panicking. She closed her eyes for a moment, because she knew she could not do it while he looked at her like that. She knew what it felt like to get ones heart broken, and she could not bear to witness being the one who did it to Sherlock Holmes. He may have broken her heart a dozen times, but Molly Hooper was not a spiteful person. She would never hurt him out of revenge.

She clenched her fists by her sides and stood up from the couch.  
Slowly Sherlock got up from his place by the table as well. But neither took a step closer to the other, instinctively feeling that it was better to remain where they were.  
"I can't do this anymore. It's not fair to you," Molly said in a low voice. It was not a lie.  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and a wrinkle formed between them. "What do you mean?" His voice was relatively calm as well, but Molly could tell that he had a hard time keeping it that way.  
She took a deep breath to prepare herself for her next words. "No, you're… You are not the man I fell in love with."  
She watched as pain washed over his face like a crashing wave, because somehow he knew that part of that sentence was true.

He tried to keep his features in check and cleared his throat before he spoke and took a hesitant step towards her. Molly remained transfixed by the spot. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
"I don't love you anymore." She told him with a coldness he had never heard her direct at him before.

His eyes became wide, and then they clouded over with anger. His body tensed and his tone reflected all the fury she saw in his eyes, "You're lying. What's the real reason?"

He clutched her hard when he reached her arm. Molly flinched under his touch. His grip was too strong and for a moment she had the urge to try to free herself from it, but somehow the physical pain felt... good... like his actions were justified because of what she did to him. Somehow she felt she deserved to feel some sort of physical pain. That it was only fair him hurting her, because she was doing the same to him – emotionally.

She tried to go on with what she had to do, "It's true. That's why I was so hesitant about the wedding, why I was holding back when….," her voice faltered as she felt tears sting her eyes.

His grip loosened considerably, and he tilted his head to the side, as if viewing her from a different angle would change her words.  
"You're just getting cold feet, second thoughts, that's perfectly normal," he said in a strained, but again low voice, and Molly was not sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. "Tell me what is bothering you, what I have done wrong and I will make it right. I will." It was not an empty, placating promise, and that made Molly's heart ache even more.  
She looked at him with doe's eyes and bit her lip, not trusting her voice.

He let go of her, sighed, drew a hand through his curls and Molly almost chuckled at the familiarity of his actions.  
"Give me one good reason, Molly, all I'm asking you for is a rational explanation. I am begging you," he said in a pleading tone. And somehow that did it for her. Because Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to beg. Sherlock Holmes did not beg.

She finally found her voice again, now growing louder with every word and raising in pitch as her agitation grew, because holding onto her pent up frustration was better than breaking into tears, "There is none, don't you see?! Nothing about this is rational! It can't be!"

Fire danced in his eyes again, and his expression turned heated, "You don't make any sense, Molly! Just tell me the truth!"

"I can't, 'cause... Your truth is not mine!" she burst out, becoming quite a bit hysterical and was about to turn away from him, feeling like she was losing her grip. But Sherlock was quicker and grabbed her by the wrist. She swallowed back the sob that threatened to make its way from her throat. "Please…," she pleaded, her voice came out crackly. It seemed like she was going to cry after all.  
"Please what? Please let me go or please keep me from going?" He asked while drawing circles with his thumb on her wrist.  
"I just want to do the right thing!" she whispered as if to herself.  
"I don't know what you're talking about, but I can tell you that right now you're doing the wrong thing." Sherlock desperately tried to suppress his exasperation.

Molly swallowed hard, bowed her head defeated and kept her gaze onto the floor when she stated, "You don't love me."  
He sounded utterly appalled, "I think I know who I love."  
Molly involuntarily flinched. Never before had she heard Sherlock utter that word in this context.  
Slowly she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes, with all the sadness she felt, "No, believe me, the real you doesn't love me."  
He threw up his hands in exasperation, "What's that supposed to mean? I am real!"  
Now Molly could not help the tear that escaped her eye. "I can't do this anymore!"

She could see how lost he was, because for him she did not make any sense, but the situation had gone out of hand. This had not gone how she had planned.

He stared at her and she stated, "This is not you."  
He was about to make a step towards her, but she held up a shaking hand, stopping him, and told him, "It's okay. But no matter what you think at the moment, or what I wish, I don't count."

And suddenly she saw a shift in him. She could see the whirlwind of emotions in his eyes: confusion, hurt, sadness, anger. And then his features turned to stone. He was almost ice like. Cold… still. He was in a state of catatonia. She did not dare to breathe.

"Sherlock?" she prompted after a few moments had passed.  
He did not move, not one bit. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and took a hesitant step towards him. His stare was vacant.

"Sherlock?" she tried again, a bit louder this time for she started to worry about his well-being.

Suddenly he blinked three times, and slowly his eyes focused on her, and he looked at her like he was supposed to – without any of the affection that had lain in his gaze since he had lost his memory. His face was the epitome of detachment.

Molly clamped a hand over her mouth. The doctors had told them about spontaneous recovery, but that was a bit too spontaneous for her taste.

He stared at her and then at the ring adjoining her finger. His eyes widen fractionally, but apart from that his face was totally impassive.

"Sherlock?" she asked a third time, but he just turned around on his heels, grabbed his coat and scarf from the hanger and left without a single word.

This was it. Molly felt relief and grief and sank down onto the floor. Sobs started to wrack her body. It was over. It was all over.

Through her blurry vision her gaze was fixed on the ring on her hand. She ripped it off like a plaster. Quick and easy. And just like it always was with a plaster, it was anything but quick and easy, it hurt like hell.

They had always told her never to fall for a sociopath. Because love was exactly that: falling.

* * *

**A/N: I had sleepless nights over the question what the trigger for the return of Sherlock's memory should / could be. First, I considered it to be something John said or did, but then decided against it. This is a Sherlolly story, after all. I seriously considered making the re-enactment of THE Christmas party the trigger moment, just because I feel SO sorry for Molly in that scene. But let's be honest: Sherlock's mind is busy with The Woman in this scene/episode. In hindsight, I think there never really was a question. It had to be those three little words. Sometimes it's just too obvious – you miss the forest for the trees. And I hope you'll agree with my choice.**


	29. Memento

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've never gotten so many comments for one single chapter. WOW! Thank you!
> 
> Pipsis, I guess it goes without saying, yet still: You are the best!

**29\. Memento **

"I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can't believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can't imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven't been."  
― Raymond Carver, _Where I'm Calling From: New and Selected Stories_

 

 

John had been called by Molly, letting him know what had happened to Sherlock. John had only understood half of what she was saying, because Molly had been sobbing violently, but he had gotten a grasp of the situation, so that 30 minutes later the Watsons had arrived at Baker Street, where they had found a crying Molly huddled on the floor in the sitting room. She had looked awful.

After a cup of tea, a few hugs and comforting words, she had been able to tell them what had happened.

They had all agreed that they needed to find Sherlock, because they had no idea which state he was in.

The Watsons had informed Mycroft, Lestrade and Wiggins of the new developments, had left the little one and Molly in the care of Mrs Hudson and had gone to search for the consulting detective.

They had started with looking for him in his known bolt holes. Lestrade had gone to the ones he knew, Mycroft had sent out his flunkies, Anderson (God only knew how he had found out what was going on) had gone to Leinster Gardens ("Don't you see? It's a bluff! He's gone there, because we'd never expect him to."), Wiggins took care of the not so friendly neighbourhoods, Mary had gone to Molly's flat and John had set out to the most unlikely place: Behind the clock face of Big Ben.

After a lot of stairs (way too many stairs – he had to stop a few times to catch his breath) John had finally made it. He took the last step and found himself in the dimly lit room behind the clock face of Big Ben – on top of Elizabeth Tower. The tableau in front of John only confirmed that Sherlock indeed could not resist a touch of drama: He stood with his back towards him, looking outside, his hands behind his back – a dark shadow in his Belstaff with the collar turned up against the illuminated clock face. John could not help but note that it looked like an impressive shot of the headquarters of the villain in a movie. The only thing that was missing from the scene was the wind that was billowing his coat dramatically.

* * *

Sherlock had never had so many emotions running through him. He feared his mind was going to go into overload.  
The rooms in his mind palace were rearranging themselves on their own accord. He had tried to make them stop, but it had been useless. The more he had tried, the stronger the headache had become. At some points his vision had been blurry when he had hurried up the stairs to this room. He had been barely able to catch his breath when he had finally arrived here. It had felt as if he was suffocating. His hands had been shaking, cold sweat had been on his forehead. The rational part of his mind had been telling him that he was having a panic attack, but he refused to believe it. Panic attacks were caused by fear, fear was irrational, and he was nothing if rational. Henceforth it was simply impossible that he was having a real panic attack.

It had felt like the night when he had not been able to find the room with the memory of proposing to Molly. Only now Molly had not been there to help him. He had tried to dismiss this thought instantly. She had not helped him. She had lied to him, deceived him, invented a memory that had never existed in the first place.

And after a few minutes of concentrating on breathing and slowing his erratic heartbeat down, he had managed to calm down. A bit. He had been alone with his thoughts and... feelings. All cursing through him like a river that would burst its banks, if stopped. He had tried to fight against the tide, but it had proven to be useless. It had felt like his mind was trapped in a room, running against the walls, trying to escape.

Then he had heard John climbing the stairs. Bits and pieces, pictures and words had swirled through his head – some of them actual memories, some invented back-story. Now he could tell them apart. How had he not been able to tell them apart? How could he have ever believed he was like that?! What had he done? How could his so called friends let this happen to him? It was humiliating, embarrassing. All this caring, touching, kissing, smiling, laughing, ... This hope and joy, these doubts and fears... He would have given everything to feel nothing again.

* * *

John was still contemplating how to broach his best friend, when said man started to talk with an empty voice, "I knew if someone were to find me here it would be you. Mary went to Molly's flat, didn't she?"

John knew it had been a rhetorical question, so he remained silent.

Slowly Sherlock turned away from the scenery of London at night towards his blogger, and when they finally came face to face, John saw that the calmness in his voice had been a well performed act, for Sherlock was unhinged. He had a haunted look in his eyes that reminded the former army doctor of the one Sherlock had worn in Dartmoor. And he was so very pale. He tried to hide it, but he failed. The only thing that was unruffled was his voice, for it was as bored as ever when he started, "I figure you are glad."

John cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side in question, "What do you mean?"

"My amnesia-story will make a heart-wrenching blog entry. I've already got a tile for you _A Case of Identity_." His voice was monotone.

John knew that Sherlock was trying to pick a fight. He was angry and confused and wanted to take it out on someone. The former army doctor knew that he needed to be the one to stay calm. He did not know how long he could manage, but he would try.

Therefore he held back a sarcastic riposte and said instead, "I guess you can remember everything?" Being a doctor (although he had had his days) he was worried about Sherlock's well-being.

Sherlock snorted, "You guess correctly, doctor."

"Do you…," John started, but was interrupted by his best friend, "And I remember that it was indeed Mr Rucastle who was so kind as to arrange for me to get to know the marble coffee table better than necessary."

"Are you suffering from a headache? You should go and..."

Sherlock's face was shrouded in a cold fury when he interrupted John and hollered, "Don't you dare tell me what to do! Don't patronize me!" He pointed a finger at his best friend, who took an involuntary step backwards. "You've patronized me with lies for long enough!"  
"Says the man who has made me believe that he was dead for two years."  
"That's something entirely different."  
"Care to explain why?" John crossed his arms in front of his chest.  
"I had no choice!" Sherlock exclaimed.  
"There's always a choice! We also had a choice, but it seemed like the right one at the time and I am still convinced it was."

All the anger and frustration that Sherlock felt was clear in his voice when he accused his best friend, "You formed an alliance against me!"  
John still tried to defend their actions, but felt himself getting more and more worked up as well and his voice swelled as well, "We formed an alliance for you. To help you."  
"It was a conspiracy. You lied to me. All of you!"  
"We had a good teacher."  
Sherlock hadn't expected that comeback and froze for a moment.

John was befuddled by his own statement. It was not what he had wanted to say, but the words had broken through and now it was too late.

Sherlock recovered rather quickly, and a derisive half-smile formed on his lips, "Seems like you've stayed in the suburbs for too long again. You are latent aggressive. I'll tell Wiggins to keep his distance."

John took a deep breath, because he knew otherwise he would have to hit Sherlock. Hard. Sherlock was cruel on purpose, because he did not know how else to cope with the situation. He was like a wild animal forced into a corner.

John drew a hand over his face. "Sherlock, I know how you..."  
But again he was interrupted by the consulting detective. This time his voice was full of loathing, "All those moments from the past that you staged..."  
"To expose you to memories from the loss. It was supposed to speed up the process of recovery."  
Again Sherlock's voice grew louder, "My life is no play for you to direct! I am not a character in some cheesy melodrama!"  
John tried to calm him down, "I know that, Sherlock. We know that. But we... we didn't know what to do. We wanted to help you, so you would be your old self again as soon as possible."  
"Then why didn't you just tell me?" Now his voice was just hollow.  
John sighed deeply. "Believe me, we wanted to, but all specialists we talked to advised against it vehemently. It could have led to severe emotional trauma."  
Sherlock gave him a look.  
"You don't believe me," John stated.  
"I don't know what to believe anymore." Now Sherlock sounded sad. He turned away from his friend and looked outside once more.

John took the moment to gather his thoughts. He had always known that this would not be easy. Sometimes it was frustrating to no ends to be Sherlock Holmes' best friend.

He tried another approach, "This was not easy for us either, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how hard it was for Molly?"  
Sherlock scoffed, but did not turn around. "I don't see why she should be complaining. She finally had me like she had always wanted me to be: her nice well-behaved puppy."

John felt himself getting worked up again. Sherlock directing his anger at him was one thing, but hitting at poor Molly who had done everything for him, was just unacceptable. His voice was stern, "Apart from your parents Molly is probably the only person who loves you for who you are – despite all your flaws."  
Sherlock remained silent and kept looking outside.  
John shook his head. "You really don't deserve her."  
"I've never said I did."  
Sherlock's words made John pause.  
He wanted to ask him what he meant by that, when Sherlock turned around quickly, and with two long strides he was in front of his considerably shorter friend, who did not budge one bit.

Sherlock's tone was a mixture between anger and frustration when he demanded, "It was pathetic. I was pathetic. I was driven by sentiment. How could you let that happen?"

He paused, before he continued, "Even Molly broke up with me, because I was too nice." He shook his head and mumbled as if to himself, "I can't believe Molly broke up with me!"

John answered calmly and could not help the small smile that tucked on his lips when remembering, "You were happy."  
"If being brain-wrecked is the key to happiness, I'll rather be miserable."  
"You were happy," John repeated, "I've never seen you like that before."  
"That wasn't me." John was not sure if he detected a bit of melancholy in Sherlock's eyes.  
"No, but it is a part of you. One you normally keep well hidden."  
"For a good reason."  
"And what could that be?" John stared at his friend in challenge.  
To his surprise he did indeed answer him, "It makes me stupid." Now there had been a trace of sadness in his voice.  
John assured him, "You weren't stupid! You solved the Rucastle case. You were just as brilliant in your deductions as always. Molly even helped you solve the Rucastle case. You've found the final clue because of what she had said. You've said she stimulated the genius in you and was a conductor of light."  
He made a pause and then added teasingly, "I have to admit, I was a bit jealous."

The ghost of a smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth, and John was glad that he had been able to lighten the mood slightly, if only for a moment.

Unfortunately the moment was short lived, for Sherlock started pacing up and down in front of John, his hands balled into fists at his sides. It was as if he was at war with himself.

John understood. Sherlock hated to appear weak, and his mind sentiment equalled weakness.  
Still the former army doctor could not help but push his luck, "You've said, she was the perfect woman for you." There was no need to specify whom he meant with "she".  
"I had lost my mind. I was brain damaged!" Sherlock growled and quickened his strides.

John sighed. "Denial isn't just a river in Egypt."  
Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked at his best friends. "That's true. In addition to Egypt, the Nile River flows through Uganda, Ethiopia, Kenya, …"  
"I was not talking about the Nile." John could not keep the frustration out of his voice, because he was not sure if Sherlock really was oblivious to what he meant, or if he just pretended to be. "Clever word's won't help you now, Sherlock."  
"Well then refrain from talking in riddles and about geography. If you have something to say, say it." Now it was Sherlock who challenged his friend.

Still John was glad to have a Sherlock in front of him, who did not know common sayings or references to pop culture. He was pretty sure he would not hear his friend cite Shakespeare anytime soon.

"You killed for me, and I am merely your friend," John said with newfound calm.  
Sherlock was not sure why John had brought that up all of a sudden, but he had a feeling where this was going. "I did not kill Molly's abductor."  
John gave him a look. "We both know why you called the Yard. To keep yourself from killing him. You knew Molly would not want you to do that. What would it have been good for: getting her back, just to lose her again, because you'd be sent away for homicide?"  
John made a pause, to wait for a reaction from his best friend.

When there was none, he went on, "Sherlock, you've always been bad with people, especially with Molly. And after rescuing her… I don't know if you were doing it on purpose in order to push her away, because in your twisted mind you thought it was nicer that way than just telling her that she didn't have a chance. Or if you were doing it to make fun of her infatuation with you."  
The blogger paused again and shook his head, "Or if you plain didn't see what you were doing to her."  
John stared at his friend, hoping to have provoked some kind of emotional reaction from him with his words. He did get a reaction, but not the one he had hoped for.  
"I must save my mind for better things," Sherlock said coldly and resumed pacing.

He did not like the direction this conversation had taken. Why was this all about Molly all of a sudden? He felt his head swimming again. He felt the sudden urge for a cigarette, a drink, or maybe even another more addictive kind of substance. He knew neither was in any way a solution to his problems, but for a fleeting moment he could see himself giving over to the illusion that a smoke or a glass of whiskey were able to calm his nerves. But given the way his hands shook (although he did his best not to acknowledge this physical sign of his distress – and hide from John), he would have probably had a hard time lighting a cigarette or pouring some drink without spilling some of it. Apart from the fact that he had neither substance at hand at the top of Elizabeth Tower.

The voice of his best friend abruptly ended his excursion into the fields of his addictive personality. "I won't let you do this to Molly, or to yourself," John clarified, and it sounded suspiciously like a threat. And Sherlock Holmes did not like to be threatened.  
"And what do you intend to do about it?" the consulting detective challenged loftily.

Again John sighed, because he knew there was not really anything he could do. And pursuing this line of confrontation would not get him anywhere. If anything, it would only make things worse.

"Feelings only lead to complication," Sherlock stated, as if that would put an end to the conversation. Needless saying that John would not let him off the hook so easily. "Sherlock, I understand that this must be all very confusing and irritating for you. I don't even pretend to know what a shock it must have been. But don't you think that maybe something good can come from it? That you needed that little push to be confronted with your... feelings. With ... love?" John knew that he was walking on thin ice here.  
Sherlock stopped his stride and stared blankly ahead for a moment, before he confessed with resignation, "I don't understand love."  
"No one does."  
The tall man turned towards his friend and arched an eyebrow, "John, you're not being very helpful."  
John only shrugged, "What can I say, it's the truth."  
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"  
There was moment of silence, because John could not think of a witty rejoinder.

Sherlock was deep in thought and then growled, "Love is the silliest and most useless notion in this world."  
The consulting detective was getting angry again, so John tried to reason with him, "Without love you wouldn't be alive anymore! Whatever Molly did to help you fake your own death, she did it out of love. She would not have risked her career and her life if she were not in love with you."

Sherlock had never thought of Molly being silly because she was in love with him. Objectively speaking he was a rather good catch: He was smart. No, he was a genius – relatively good looking , ... Yet, subjectively... why would she love him? How could she love him? He had never done anything to deserve her kindness. He had been manipulative, cold, repellent, cruel even. Yet she had not wanted him to be the nice and caring man he had been since his head trauma. He shook his head back and forth as if trying to will his thoughts away. It was infuriating!

"Love is an aberration!" he hollered, and John looked stunned at the sudden outburst of his friend.  
"I was an aberration!" Sherlock tugged at his hair and went over to the clock face to look outside again.  
John made a step towards him. "Sherlock you know that's not..." but he did not come any further, for Sherlock interjected, "I want you to go." It was more a plea than an order.

He needed to think. He needed to organize his mind palace again, he needed to spend time in some rooms to make sense of all of this. And he needed to be alone to do that. He knew John meant well, but he was a nuisance at this point.

John knew that the conversation was over. No matter what he would say or do, Sherlock would not listen. He wanted to be alone. And probably this was for the best – at the moment.

Slowly the blogger retreated towards the staircase. Before he started his descend he said, "I'll leave you be. But don't vanish. Let us know that you are alive at some point. Because we worry about you, mate. And please... don't do anything stupid." He thought about adding that Sherlock should go see a doctor, but knew it was useless. He was not even sure if his best friend had even paid attention to what he had been saying. With a heavy heart he climbed down the stairs and left the world's only consulting detective alone in his mind palace behind the clock face of Big Ben.

* * *

**A/N: So for now I'll leave you and Sherlock to your thoughts (and I'd love to hear them) ;-)  
Only one chapter left… I can hardly believe it. **


	30. A beautiful Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What began as an innocent birthday wish turned into this huge mystery, and at points I was not sure if I could pull it off. But all your encouragement kept me going and I am both happy and sad that it's finally over. There were chapters that were easy to write and others where I was at my wits end about how to get the characters to where I wanted them to be. But as with most stories, there is this point where you'll have to accept that it's not so much about you leading the characters, but they taking you with them. So I hope you've enjoyed our journey together and like the place where we've finally ended up – which is at the ends of the earth ;-) 
> 
> I am very grateful for Pipsis sharing this journey with me and getting the stones (errors) that were thrown into my path out of the way.

**30\. A beautiful Mind **

"Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always"  
― Dante Alighieri

 

Life was no fairy-tale, and no romance either. Maybe it was a coming-of-age-story – you started out young and innocent with a hunger for knowledge and life, you made mistakes, fell in love, got your heart broken, were confronted with death and learned something about the world and yourself, but in the end you did neither get all the answers to your questions nor the solutions to all your problems, as you had so naively believed you would at the beginning of your journey. So you were left behind with the feeling that you had not only gained, but also lost something. And it was up to you to decide which outweighed the other.

For some chapters, Molly Hooper had been an important character in the book of Sherlock Holmes – maybe even a protagonist (she did not dare to think in terms of "love interest", although it would have been appropriate), but now she was not a vital part of Sherlock's story anymore. Maybe one day, if he could ever forgive her for what she had done and trust her again, there was a slight chance that she could become the occasional side note she had been at the beginning of their acquaintance.

But Molly Hooper did not know if this would ever happen. She was trapped in that horrible phase called _moment of final suspense_ , and she wished she could skip some pages and get a glimpse of the ending. Just so she would know what was in store for her, and she could prepare herself for it. But of course in real life there was no skipping pages (or even chapters), no spoiler and no scanning the last page to assure oneself that everything would turn out alright in the end. Molly Hooper was bound to live through every line, word and letter in her story, with all the exclamation and question marks it contained, in the hope that it would end with a satisfying full stop and not with dot, dot, dot.

* * *

After John had come back from his (not touristy) visit of Big Ben, he had informed them that Sherlock was (relatively) fine, considering the circumstances. Molly had taken Toby and left 221B Baker Street the same night. She had not been able to endure sleeping in his bed.

The next day, John and Lestrade had gone to Baker Street to get most of her stuff and had brought it back to her flat. Then John had gotten a text from his best friend telling him, that he would be "out of town for an unknown amount of time" and that they were not to contact him. One can imagine that no one had been happy about that turn of events, but no one had been really surprised either. They had expected Sherlock to act closed off. They had even been rather surprised that he had bothered to text at all.

Mary had taken care of all the wedding planning, or wedding cancelling as it was now. And Molly was glad about that, because she had been in no shape to do it herself. (Mary's favourite reaction was that of the confectioner, "Better break it off before the wedding. Divorces are awfully expensive." Mary had the suspicion the he was talking from experience.)

When it had been clear that Sherlock had disappeared from the scene for the time being, Molly had brought up all her courage and had gone back to 221B one evening. She had left the sapphire earrings Sherlock had given her at Christmas on the coffee table. She had thought about leaving a note, but in the end had refrained from it. She had not known what to write. She was not good with words – neither when spoken nor written.

She had kept the engagement ring though. She had not worn it anymore, of course. Instead she had kept it safely in its velvet box and had carried it with her in her bag ever since. She wanted to give back the ring to him in person. It would have felt cowardly and cheap to just leave it on the coffee table. With the earrings it had been somewhat different, they had been something borrowed after all – blue, old and borrowed. Just like the engagement ring and their time together – everything had just been borrowed.

After leaving Baker Street for good (or so she thought), she had dove into work and tried to busy herself. She had hoped that it would take her mind off the mess her life had become and help her get back on track.

And then one night, when thinking of him even while reading something that was in no way related to Sherlock Holmes ( _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture),_ she had known there was no way to forget about him, as long as she stayed in London. She needed to get away.

The next morning she had brought Toby to Meena (he had complained of course, but Meena had brought him round with some tuna), had cleared things with Mike Stamford, texted the Watsons and then had left. He had gone away. Without a word. Without a call. Without texting her. She did the same.

* * *

While on the plane – thousands of metres above the ground – she had contemplated that in the English language falling out of love was even crueller than, for instance in German: In German one fell off Cloud Number 7, in English it was Cloud Number 9. And being a doctor she knew that two storeys could make a big difference when hitting the ground.

She had cried. A lot. She had felt sorry for herself and for him. She was mourning him. A person that had never existed. Someone she didn't even want to be with. She had fallen for an ADD sociopath, and her fiancé had not been Sherlock Holmes, but some person who had looked and sounded like him and on occasion even had behaved like him. But he had not been the Sherlock Holmes she had fallen in love with. The man who made everyone else seem so ordinary.

She had a hard time getting the image out of her mind when he had left – looking at her as if she had committed some felony. Probably because she felt he was somehow right. All this time she had felt as if she had been betraying him. The man who trusted her. No, she had to correct herself: The man who had trusted her.

She had always known that there would be no more Sherlock and Molly after his memory was restored. Yet still it hurt. In a twisted way she had had what she had always dreamed of, but it had been wrong. And she had known that from the beginning. It had felt wrong. Nevertheless she missed him, their relationship: William and Molly – "normal to the point of being boring."  
Although it had not been boring at all. Not for one second.

She understood why Sherlock had fled, why he had gone away. Change didn't come easy with Sherlock Holmes, and the changes he had undergone were dramatic. Still so many questions that only he could answer tormented her: Did he regret being nice, being engaged to her? Did he feel embarrassed for showing emotions? Was he angry? Confused? Did he hate them? Would he turn away from her? Would she ever see him again? Could he ever forgive her – could he forgive himself for being human, vulnerable? All those questions (and many more of a similar kind) kept sleep (the elusive bastard!) away at night.

She was glad he had never told her that he loved her. In a film or book "I love you" meant something. It had some sense of finality to it. One knew that two characters would stay together forever (at least for the length of 90 film-minutes, or 350 book-pages), because of those three little words. But in reality people said it all the time and still broke up and got divorced. Maybe it did not matter that he had never told her? If he had, it would have been just another lie. One of his confabulations. She could not help but wonder if anything he had said and done had been real. If he had acted the way he had, because somewhere deep down he felt something for her? He had let himself give over to the forbidden sensation, because he had forgotten all the reasons why he had to hide it. It was wishful thinking on her part, she knew, yet still…

Tears were not getting her anywhere, and neither did wishful thinking nor "what if"- phantasies. This needed to end.

Molly Hooper hated loose ties. In her opinion the term "open end" was contradictory. It was not supposed to be. That was why she refused to believe that her life belonged to the genre of a coming-of-age-story. She would get her full stop in the end. She would fight for it. The problem was just that the other person she needed for an ending had left their story. Sherlock Holmes probably wanted a story of his own. A mystery novel without any romantic subplot. Straightforward – without complication – but there was no such thing – whether in storytelling nor in life. Who wanted to read a story without ups and downs, trials and tribulations?

Maybe it was masochistic, but she needed to do it. She knew it was stupid. She knew it was sentimental, but she needed closure. Only then could she let the hurt go. Eventually.

Art imitated life – or was it the other way round? She sometimes wondered. Henceforth she figured since the person she needed for her own ending had vanished from the page, maybe witnessing someone else's story would bring her closure.

Words could be rewritten, but not taken back. Actions could be justified, but not made undone. She needed to see that a happy ending was possible, even if it may not have been in store for her.

That's why she was here, on the other side of the world: Copper Beaches, St. Andrew's, Victoria. The place where Sherlock had wanted to spend their honeymoon. Because they both had read the file: _P.M., CB, St. Andrew's, Victoria –_ Peter Munro, Copper Beaches, St. Andrew's, Victoria. And it hadn't let her go.

Then Sherlock had told her that it was all linked: Peter Munro hat gone to the Rucastles to meet his biological father. Molly guessed that the young man surely had pictured the reunion rather differently. But despite all the dark aspects of this story (death, loss, pain, uncertainty, abduction, fear) there had been a shimmer of light: Peter Munro had found love in the person of Roger Fowler. And through the kindness and courage of Sarah Marshall they had been able to turn the tragedy into a melodrama.

Molly knew that there was only one place the lovers would go: home. And there they stood; hand in hand between yellow sand and green grass at Copper Beaches, looking over the sea where the horizon seemed to verge into the water, both being blue with white speckles – either clouds or spray.

The breeze messed with Molly's hair, but the faint smile remained on her lips as she watched the happy couple walk away together. Yes, it was a cliché, yes, it was cheesy, but it was exactly what she had needed. And although it did not change the fact that she would probably wander through the rest of her storybook alone, it made her heart lighter to see someone else had been able to end on a happy note. She brushed the hair out of her face and sighed. It felt like she had reached the end of a chapter, and now she was determined to make the best of the next.

Just as she started to contemplate what to do now – for she had only planned so far – a deep voice behind her made her jump, "I didn't know you to be a stalker."  
Her heart skipped a beat (or two). She hated it when he snuck up on her like that. And not for the first time she considered putting a bell around his neck.

Before she could utter a word, he went on, "But I know you are a hopeless romantic. So I guess that's why you are here." It wasn't insulting. He was simply being matter-of-fact.

Slowly she turned to face the consulting detective. He was not looking at her, but stared after Peter Munro and his boyfriend like she had done until a moment ago.

"You are neither a stalker nor a romantic," she said.  
"No." He did not turn to look at her, and his voice and stance were aloof.  
But Molly knew that Sherlock was not as calm as he appeared to be. He was belied by a slight twitching of his jaw.

Suddenly she was not sure if she was glad that he was here. Sure, she longed for closure, but he would take away what they had had. She knew it had not been real, that it had been a lie. Yet still there had been moments when she could have made herself believe it was. When she had imagined how it would be to be with him. He had been hers for a short amount of time. And all of a sudden she realized that she was not ready to let it go; to let him go. She didn't want him to play down what had happened, to deny it. She didn't want him to destroy the happy memories she had of their time together. She wanted to treasure those. At Christmas she had wished for his memories to return. Be careful what you wish for...

He did neither move nor say anything. He just kept his eyes on the couple that slowly became smaller as they diverged from them more and more. Soon they would become tiny figures on the horizon.

He let her look at him, or maybe he did not even notice her staring.  
He looked slightly out of place in this context: sea, beach, sun and sand. His hair was tousled from the wind and his white dress shirt was a bit more unbuttoned than usual (by one button to be precise). Still he looked a bit overdressed. But what had Molly expected? Sherlock Holmes wearing an Aloha shirt?  
His right cheek was slightly swollen, and his eyelid had the light shimmer of purple and yellow. It looked like he had gotten into a fight.

Molly could not stand his silence any longer.  
"You are not surprised to see me," she stated.  
"I told you, I would have done the same," he answered, referring to the conversation they had had about her reading the _Top Secret_ -file.

She thought about his statement for a moment, then she said, "But you've already known that they had fled to Copper Beaches."  
He shrugged, his eyes still not taking off the scenery. "Balance of probability. Still, it was just a theory, but I needed proof. You're someone who needs proof as well. And you are someone who craves for closure."  
Molly could hardly argue with that.

"So, you're here in your role as consulting detective," she tried to lighten the mood a bit, but the sentence sounded a bit awkward, and the nervousness she was feeling was obvious in her voice. She tried to smile but failed miserably.

Only now did he turn to look at her, and Molly could not help but think that his eyes and the sea in the background were of the same colour.

"And I am to assume, you are here in your role as consulting pathologist?"  
The corners of his mouth quirked up. Hers did the same and for an instant her heart felt a bit lighter.

But the moment was short lived, because his face became a guarded mask once more and Molly felt her heart getting even heavier under his intense gaze.

* * *

He had spent hours – no days – in his mind palace, trying to figure out what had happened. What had possessed him to become William Holmes – this civil, caring, boring man? He had tried to analyse his situation and had come to the realization that it was indeed not his, but their situation, because it was the state of his relationship with his friends and Molly Hooper that was in question.

Naturally the thought had crossed his mind that his subconscious had been playing an evil trick on him and that deep down he had some kind of … repressed feelings… for the petite pathologist, and the blow to his head had opened the door to a room that had been labelled "Forbidden: Human Error". And naturally the moment he had considered that, he had wanted to dismiss it. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes: master of deduction and detachment. Yet how detached had he been when Molly had been abducted? When he had seen her in that blue dress? When the filthy bastard Mr Rucastle had ogled her? He had to admit that he had had … peculiar… thoughts about his pathologist even before he had been hit over the head. But he had not considered acting upon them. Why complicate things? And what had it been good for? He doubted that things could get even more complicated.

He had gone through every moment he had spent with Molly since he had woken up in hospital as William Holmes. She had deceived him, lied to him, betrayed his trust, but she had tried to keep the damage as limited possible. He had to give her some credit for that. She had let him kiss her and hold her but could keep things from escalating. She had not taken advantage of the situation. And he knew for a fact that Molly had always wanted to be intimate with him.

Now all her peculiar behaviour made sense. Why she had been so closed off, distant, never initiating physical contact, reluctant to talk about the wedding, uncomfortable when he acted affectionate towards her. What had happened had been collateral damage.

He had been angry with her, of course, but he also understood why she had done it. Although he hadn't wanted to believe it at first, but he had to admit – after days of thinking – that John had told him the truth: They had acted only in his best interest.

After he had told John that he understood, his best friend had asked him what he intended to do in case of Molly, and he had replied, "Nothing. Why?"  
John's answer had been "You bloody [insert swearword here]!" and a punch in the face.  
Sherlock had realized that his blogger probably had a point (a powerful left and obviously a bad day) and a few more hours (days) in his mind palace were in order.

Sentiment was a disadvantage – especially when trusting the wrong person. He had learnt that the hard way. The one time (since his addictive years) he had felt ... something... he had been betrayed. That's why he had kept her camera phone – as a reminder of what could happen if he fell into the trap of sentiment. But now her phone was gone, and he could not find it in himself to really care. He may not have been in his right mind when he had said it, but it had been the truth: Why hold onto the past?

But Sherlock had seen the need to revisit the past in order to figure out what he wanted to do. The consulting detective had revised his time being engaged to Molly again. He had never believed in the concept of mind, body (only transport) and soul (still lacked proof of its existence) being in accord. But if he did believe that there was something like a soul, he was tempted to say that Molly Hooper was a good soul. How else could she have been able to show the restraint she had? How else could she keep up with his rather... challenging personality? It was kindness what he had mistaken for weakness when he had first met Molly Hooper.

His mind had set different priorities while being William. That was why the rooms in his mind palace had swapped places (And why was there a room labelled "Greg"?). But how did he ... think ... feel ... about it now that he saw life in the right perspective again? Was there room for a good soul like Molly Hooper?

He had gone through his memories of sharing his thoughts, his flat, his life with her; talking about post mortems, cakes and cases. They had even started an experiment and writing a paper together (Molly had commented that it felt like being Pierre and Marie Curie). It had not been boring. He had almost been tempted to say it had been... interesting. But he had been a different person then, hadn't he? Was William Holmes really part of his personality, like John believed he was? Was he even able to separate those two anymore? Had he been infected by his alias? Had the thinking pattern of William infiltrated his mind? Was he able to delete all those shameful memories? Did he even want to?  
In the end he had come to a conclusion and had set out to the place he knew a hopeless romantic like her would go to.

* * *

"You lied to me." His eyes were burning with reproach, his face and voice devoid of any emotion.

The pathologist swallowed and bowed her head, watching as her bare feet shuffled in the warm sand, although she did not feel its warmth. She felt rather cold inside. Molly couldn't be bothered to contradict the truth of this assertion.

"We...," she began to justify their actions, but stopped. He knew why they had done it. John had probably explained it to him a hundred times. How they had thought it was for the best, how they had followed doctor's order,... Sherlock didn't want or need any more justification. It didn't make it any better, or less hurtful.

She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. She was surprised that he gave her the time, although she felt his eyes watching her every move, interpreting her behaviour, trying to catch her at yet another lie.

Finally she found the courage to lift her head and look him in the eyes.  
"I am sorry," she told him, all solemnity and she hoped he could see the sincerity of her statement in her face.

His gaze was evaluating at first, and then there was something that she couldn't name, and he only nodded and turned back to look at the scenery. Molly was sure he did not really descry any of the beautiful nature surrounding them, for he wore a faraway look on his face.

Again she waited for him to say something – scream at her, insult her, deduce her, accuse her – but again he remained silent. This untypical behaviour made her even more anxious.

Molly pointed a finger to his swollen cheek and asked shyly, "What happened to your face?"  
"John and I had a little disagreement."

Molly nodded. She remembered how riled up John had been after he had talked to Sherlock behind the clock-face of Big Ben. She figured their first encounter after that had not been less emotional.  
"Looks like somebody still cares about you," she stated.

Sherlock turned to look at her and raised an eyebrow in question.  
She indicated to his face once again and explained, "Because he spared your nose."  
Now it was his turn to nod, then he cocked his head to the side and asked, "What about you?"  
"What about me?"  
"Would you still spare my nose?"  
The question ran so much deeper than the trivial issue they were ostensibly talking about.

Molly felt raw under his gaze and quite a bit sick from all the nerves, but she had promised herself not to lie to him anymore, so she replied in a low voice, "You know I would."  
Sherlock shook his head and scoffed, "You are a foolish woman."

The pathologist crossed her arms in front of her to provide herself with a means of emotional protection, although she knew that it was way too late for that.

"And you are a cold and calculating man," she retaliated with as much hardness in her voice as she could muster.  
"And yet when I was nice and caring you broke up with me," he said coldly.

Part of her longed to contradict him, but part of her knew he was right, so she bowed her head again defeated and stayed silent.

"It is better not to love me." He sounded almost wistful.  
Molly sighed and told the sand between her toes, "It's my curse, remember?"

When he didn't say anything, she raised her head. He looked at her, as if desperately trying to decipher her words, her thoughts – trying to make sense of her. A puzzle he had trouble solving.  
"I was so angry with you, with myself for...," his voice trailed off.  
"I know," she said in a low tone and couldn't help the spark of hope that was ignited when she realized he had used the past tense – "was so angry", not "I am so angry."

She felt like they were only talking in half sentences – leaving out the most important part, not daring to voice out loud what they were thinking or feeling.

She wanted to be angry with him for leaving her behind, for accusing her of being a liar, although he had made her one, but she couldn't find it in her. Maybe because she was so exhausted, or maybe because she understood him. None of this was his fault, or her fault, for that matter. The situation had just been so screwed up – a lose-lose situation, so to say.

Anyway, she needed to confront him with it. She knew she needed to be the one to start to talk about everything they were not saying – about this ocean of unspoken meaning between them.

"Why did you just run away?"

She saw something akin to rage blaze in his eyes, and he sounded petulant "Do you have any idea how I... felt?! I lost me twice!"

His statement stunned her into silence. It had been a rhetorical question. Of course she had no idea. She did not dare to imagine how daunting it must have been for someone like Sherlock (for whom his mind was the most important thing) to not only find out that he had lost part of his memory, but also to come to terms with the fact that he had been a different person all together and now had to live with it.

The fire in Sherlock's eyes extinguished, and he looked past her face at an invisible spot behind her.  
"I hadn't planned on telling you any of this," he admitted.

Molly whole-heartedly believed him. Sherlock had always been a man of reticence. For him, sharing his thoughts (apart from showing off by deducing someone) came close to being a weakness. So naturally she wasn't sure what to say to his admission. Their silence made the sound of the sea and the occasional mew of seagulls seem even louder.

When Molly remained silent, Sherlock scratched his neck and went on, "I've never found myself in this position before. It's difficult for me to find the right words." He sounded lost and confused - so much like amnesia-Sherlock that Molly wanted to cry.  
"It's not so much about words, Sherlock," she tried to assure him, letting him know that she appreciated him trying to bring his point across, to still trust her enough to let her in.

A tear betrayed her command and slipped down her cheek. Sherlock's gaze snapped towards it and without thinking about it he reached forward and brushed the salty droplet away with his thumb. The intimacy of his act startled them both. For a moment both looked stricken, and Sherlock's hand hovered uncertain in mid-air in front of her face.

As if on its own accord Molly's mouth opened and she pleaded, "Please, don't take away what we had."

Her directness caught him off-guard, and it made him come out of his stupor. He let his hand fall useless to his side and again he averted his gaze.

Molly could see that his thoughts were racing, that he was trying to process what was happening. It was all a bit much for him, and the pathologist was afraid that her over-sentimental plead had ruined whatever small chance there had been. Maybe that had been too much truth for him to handle? But she was fed up with pretending and hiding, because that was what had brought them here in the first place. And if her being honest was what would drive him away from her, so be it. No more pretence.

So she gathered up all her courage and asked the question that plagued her since she had last seen him, "Do you regret it?"  
She didn't need to specify what she meant.

His face was impassive, and it felt like an eternity until he answered, "No."

She knew it was far from a declaration of love, yet still she felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She could not help but breathe a sigh of relief.

Sherlock regarded her with open interest for a moment, and then he stated, "I'm afraid it is not in my nature to show affection. Even when I feel it."

His voice was hollow, yet his eyes were anything but. There was frustration, confusion and a bit of sorrow.

Molly knew he allowed her to see it, for he did nothing to hide it, and the pathologist knew that he was capable of doing so if he wanted to.

She regarded him closely and cocked her head to the side when she contradicted him in a gentle voice, "I don't think that's true."

His eyes became small slits as he seemed to contemplate her response.  
"You are quite sure about that," he declared.

Molly could not say anything, but graced him with an assuring smile instead. After all, she was certain about it. She knew what kind of man he was, albeit he desperately tried to hide and deny it.  
He nodded with a thoughtful expression on his face as if filing some essential data away.

As a gust of wind blew the smell of ocean, salt and warm sand back to Molly, she suddenly remembered what she had wanted to do the next time she would see him. And who knew: Maybe this was the last time she would see him? From the way this conversation was going she could not tell. So she needed to get it over with; let go the last bit of attachment to a time she would treasure although it had been a fake.

She put her right hand into the pocket of her trousers and retrieved the blue velvet box that contained the engagement ring. She did not know why she had carried it with her all the time. It was not like she had expected to see him. Or maybe she had – subconsciously – and that was why she had come here in the first place.

Sherlock watched her actions and his eyes widened fractionally when she stretched out her hand, palm up, presenting him the all too familiar box.  
Her hand was trembling and she hoped he would not notice, but of course it did not escape the detective's all too observant stare.

Molly cleared her throat. "I wanted to give it back to you. Sorry for keeping it so long, but I wanted to do it in person, not just leave it at Baker Street. That would have felt... wrong. And I... well..."  
She didn't know how to go on, so she decided to shut her mouth, before she would start to ramble.

She expected him to take the box from her, but instead he gave her an unintelligible look.

His voice held a trace of amusement, "I am not sure if I can return it. To be honest, I don't know about return policies of engagement rings. And if there were such a thing, I am pretty sure it has already expired."

Molly could not hold back a nervous chuckle and let her hand, which was holding the velvet box, sink to her side since he would not take it. She shrugged, not sure how to proceed.

The next words did not come easily over her lips. "You could give it to someone else… one day."  
The wrinkle on the bridge of his nose formed once again. "It's not really my area, but I am quite sure that it's not appropriate to reutilise an engagement ring."

Molly nodded tersely. This did not go how she had planned. She had not expected him to not take back the ring. Quite the contrary.

Suddenly a thought crossed her mind. "What about Janine's ring?"

Sherlock wore a theatrically martyred expression, which made Molly almost laugh.

"I had it in my coat pocket when I was brought into A&E after I had been shot. I guess she took it." He shrugged carelessly. "Since she tried to make money out of everything related to me, I figure she sold it."

Again Molly nodded. She hoped the ring had not been too expensive. She knew that "her" ring was not of the cheap kind. And probably Janine's had not been either. For Sherlock Holmes did not want to be associated with "cheap."

His voice brought her out of her thoughts, "We could ask Tom what to do with returned engagement rings."

His suggestion sounded matter-of-fact, but Molly could see the playful twinkle in his eyes.  
She gave him a look, although she could not help a little chuckle. It was mean, but a bit funny none the less.

Molly looked down onto the sand again, unsure of what to say next.

Luckily Sherlock had another suggestion, "I thought you might want to keep it. As a souvenir."

Her head snapped back to meet his gaze which was steady.

"Like the cufflinks and tiepins?" she asked, her voice both smoky and shy. She had meant her question to sound playful, but it had not come out like that.

His stare did not waver, nor did his voice, "Or like Billy. And who knows..."

The way he looked at her made her mouth suddenly feel dry and her heart speed up. She clutched the box in her hand harder. She was tired of playing games, of not knowing, of insinuation.

The pathologist drew a long breath and then asked, letting him see all the desperation she was feeling, "Do you have any idea how hard it was to be so close to you and knowing it was not real?"

At first he stared at her, as if she had slapped him, and she thought he was about to hurt her in turn with an insulting deduction, but then his features softened, and suddenly William Holmes was standing in front of her.  
"But don't you see? It was real."  
Now it was Molly's turn to look befuddled.

He sighed, obviously reluctant to express himself with words. "Not all of it, apparently, but this ... experience made me realize that having someone around is not conclusively a bad thing."

When Molly only kept staring at him, he added, "And with 'someone' I mean you."

He made a step towards her and entered her personal space. Molly had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes. His close proximity still made her nervous, and she figured she probably looked a bit mortified.

"You know I won't treat you like William did all the time."

Since Molly did not trust her voice at that point, she opted for nodding.  
The consulting detective went on, "But you don't want William, do you?"

Although he said it with conviction, Molly knew he wanted her to answer. He wanted proof; otherwise it was just a theory.

She swallowed before she replied sincerely, "No, I want Sherlock Holmes."

A smile tucked at the corner of his lips, and he leaned down tentatively. But just before his lips were to descend on hers, he hesitated. He needed her to initiate it. His bruised ego demanded it. He had already gone quite far, now he needed her to meet him halfway. And Molly Hooper gladly did so.  
She shut her eyes, closed the gap and kissed him. The moment their lips met, she felt his arms fold her into an embrace and draw her closer.  
They had kissed quite a few times while they had been engaged, but this kiss felt totally different. Because this time it was real. For both of them.

When Sherlock finally drew back and regarded her with surprise – as if he could not believe what had just happened – Molly tugged playfully on his shirt (not even Sherlock Holmes wore his beloved coat in Australian summer) and asked, "What do you think of _Hamlet_?"  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I am not hungry."  
Molly chuckled, "But I am. Come on, let's go."

So as Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper walked side by side along Copper Beaches towards her lodge, finally on the same page and looking forward to the next chapter of their story, the blue velvet box in the pathologist's hand was not a burden anymore, but rather a reminder that memory may be treacherous, but always precious.

The End.

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**A/N: Thank you all for taking the time reading. A special thanks to all of you who reviewed every single chapter (you know who you are). To** **Linkingthistoomuch** **and** **MizJoely** **who promoted my stories on Tumblr – It means the world to me!**

**For those who are wondering: Depending on where and which ring you buy, there actually is such a thing as return policies for engagement rings. That's what I love about research: one learns the weirdest things :-D**

**To Guest ( ein Sherlockian):** **Danke, danke, danke! Deine Worte haben mich nicht nur sehr gefreut, sondern mich auch verlegen gemacht ;-) Mir war es auch wichtig, dass Molly der Versuchung nicht nachgibt, denn meiner Meinung nach ist sie nicht nur ein Gutmensch, sondern hätte die Konsequenzen immerzu vor Augen. Ja, ich schreibe schon seit einiger Zeit an einer neuen Geschichte (eine ist nur eine kurze Vignette), die auch wieder so eine Mischung aus Fall und Sherlolly Ermittlung ist und auf „The Adventures of the Abbey Grange" beruht.** **Ich hoffe, du wirst daran auch Freude haben ;-) LG Succi**

**To Stella Limegood:** **Wow, that really is probably one of the best compliments I've ever gotten, thank you so much! I'd love to hear about what your ideas for this chapter have been- I find it always very interesting how different the expectations of readers are. I hope to read your Sherlock fic soon and you have enjoyed this final chapter.**


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